


The Other Side of Thanksgiving

by Deans_Fetish, virtualpersonal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8789344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deans_Fetish/pseuds/Deans_Fetish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtualpersonal/pseuds/virtualpersonal
Summary: Setting - The story takes place in a fictional English settlement in the American colonies in the mid to late 1600s. A bountiful harvest leads to a Thanksgiving Feast shared by the Colonists and the local Cherokee Indians. Dean Winchester, the son of a preacher, finds himself attracted to an Indian brave, Sam. Coming of age type story. No HEA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The boys (Dean & Sam) are both 17 and **_not_** brothers. 
> 
> Historical note: 
> 
> "In 1621, the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians shared an autumn harvest feast which is acknowledged today as one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations in the colonies. This harvest meal has become a symbol of cooperation and interaction between English colonists and Native Americans. Although this feast is considered by many to be the very first Thanksgiving celebration, it was actually in keeping with a long tradition of celebrating the harvest and giving thanks for a successful bounty of crops. Native American groups throughout the Americas, including the Pueblo, Cherokee, Creek and many others organized harvest festivals, ceremonial dances, and other celebrations of thanks for centuries before the arrival of Europeans in North America. Historians have also recorded other ceremonies of thanks among European settlers in North America..." 
> 
> Author's Notes: 
> 
> (1) In AU fics, we usually try to bring Sam and Dean's strongest character traits with them so that they are recognizable. It is often difficult to write the boys completely in character in other time periods. We note that in this case, not only is the story set in a different time in history, but the characters are also young and inexperienced, and this made it more difficult to pull the show characters' traits (such as confidence, cockiness, etc...)through. Anyway, we gave it our best. 
> 
> (2) We are aware that the Cherokee are not the best match for the time period/setting of the story (there are other tribes which would more likely have been trading with the colonists in this time period etc…), however the authors were more familiar with Cherokee culture and took that route. We have taken artistic license with the story and the art (i.e. the attire used is not Cherokee) so this is not the place to seek a history lesson or absolute cultural truths. Please take this for what it is – fanfication with no toplofty goals of teaching any lessons and which, in case it is not obvious, should not be mistaken as a researched work that anyone will rely on for accuracy.
> 
> (3) For those of you entrenched in the belief that writing about other cultures or including other cultures in fiction is some sort of “cultural appropriation” that should be disallowed, please do not raise your standard/flag here. We respectfully disagree. Art is inspired by many things, including by things (history, language, clothing, experiences) from other cultures and things from beyond the realm of the writer/artist’s own experience. Art can often be traced back to old art, it recombines old art, adds to it and makes new art. We like it that way and reject the stifling counter-view. If this offends you, please click your back button and spare yourself. 
> 
> (A/N & WARNING: There are some insults/slurs in this chapter. While it should be obvious, we nevertheless expressly state that the words that come out of our characters' mouths are not beliefs that are endorsed by the authors. Rather, they are used to paint a realistic picture of the times and the beliefs (including racial prejudice) and speech patterns of some people who lived and acted in a particular way during the period of time our story takes place. Those who cannot handle it, or who hold the belief that a work of fiction should not include this type of language for the stated purpose, please read no further.)

Dean sat in the chapel trying to pay attention to his father preaching from the pulpit. His father's sermons were fiery. John Winchester slammed his hand onto the wooden desk and directed his piercing stare at the small group of settlers and seemed to see clear into their souls. Each time his father's gaze moved to him, Dean thought his heart would fail. Would the elder Winchester see the blackness in his heart? The stain of sin? 

But was it a sin? To think about men rather than women? He bowed his head. The question was whether it was more of a sin, because a man shouldn't lust after a women any more than he should after another man. He had a lot to ask forgiveness for. Even though he'd felt the bite of his father's belt for having been caught spilling his seed in his hand, he hadn't stopped relieving the tension that coiled low in his belly, couldn't. Well he had stopped himself for a while until a few months ago, when the Cherokee Chief, Wohali Ahuli, started to bring his warrior son with him to the settlement. 

The Indians had been a Godsend, according to his father. Helping them to plant, and learn the ways of this new world. The crops had done very well, and there was talk of a feast that would take place to thank the Lord for having delivered the settlers from hunger, bringing them new friends, and a bountiful crop. Dean couldn't think of that. All he could think of most times was the Indian brave, Samrat Waya. He had dark hazel eyes. Tawny skin, which he showed off without shame. His muscles rippled under the sun, and Dean couldn't help watching him, every inch of him. Couldn't help his physical responses, or that he'd gone back to fucking his fist because he needed the relief as he imagined touching that boy. 

His head jerked up as his father's voice boomed. His heart pounded against his chest. Wrong, it was so wrong that he was getting hard between his legs. He shifted, and prayed the Lord his soul to save. He was well on his way to hell, and he'd be well on his way to an early grave if anyone found out his thoughts.

* * *

Samrat Waya stood in the fields near the small, _di-ga-la-wi-i-s-di_ , church, tending the vegetables that he and his people had taught the newcomers to plant, his gaze often darting toward the large wooden front doors of the structure. 

"Why do you not go to him?" the young brave standing next to him asked, having caught just how many times Sam glanced toward the building. His people knew that Sam held a _di-da-da-ni-lv-i-s-di_ , a liking, for the white preacher man's son. 

Sam shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the building to look back down at the rich soil they were tilling. "No, Tayanita, it is not their way. These pale skins, they do not think the way that we do." He sighed softly, "It cannot be." 

Tearing his gaze away from his friend, Tayanita looked back toward the church, frowning before he shook his head, returning his attention to the task before him. The braves were usually here to oversee and protect, but they often pitched in if they felt like it.

*

Having finished his studies, Dean ran out of the school room connected to the chapel to go help out in the fields. He liked the outdoors far better than the indoors, and he knew he was not cut out to be a preacher like his father. He wasn't bookish at all. Sometimes he wished he could live outdoors, sleep under the stars... yeah, it was a dream. He was probably the only one among the settlers that had enjoyed not having a roof over their heads when they’d first arrived.

Dean had almost reached the field when he stumbled to a stop, his eyes locking with the very boy who dominated his dreams. He licked his lips, tried to control the blush sweeping over him. Some of the guys from the settlement were already tilling the fields, some working with each other, others with Indians. Dean knew where he wanted to be. He just needed the courage.

Putting one leg in front of the other, he reached the two Indian boys, his gaze touching then moving away from Sam's. " _O-si-yo...do_ ," he said, knowing he was butchering their language, but he'd practiced the greeting a lot and dreamed of the moment he would say it to one particular brave. 

Tayanita smiled at the white boy, before glancing at Samrat Waya, nudging him with an elbow. "He makes good white, _yv-wo-ya-hi_ , Indian?" he gave a nod, still grinning. 

Sam glanced back at Dean eyeing him up and down before looking back at Tayanita. " _U-li-lo-hi yv-wo-ya-hi_ (adorable Indian)," he mumbled, a slight smile pulling at his lips as he shared the secret with his friend before looking back at Dean once more and giving a nod, _O-si-yo-do, Bhadrak_ (handsome)." 

All Dean understood was the 'hello.' He hoped that despite the smiles, they weren't making fun of him, which was a possibility. How often did his own people do that? Smile at the Indians and speak about them as if they were no better than beasts either behind their backs, or to their faces when they were with those who did not speak English. 

"I'm Dean. I know you're Sam... Samrat." Even if he hadn't been introduced as the son of the chief, Dean would have found out this brave's name. "You're?" He looked at the other brave, waiting for an introduction. The two warriors were dressed differently from those who came to help till the land most of the time. They wore less clothes, almost nothing but a loin cloth. Dean had to struggle to keep himself from letting his eyes rove over Sam, at least when others would notice.

Sam gave a curt nod. "Samrat Waya." He frowned trying to think of the white words, "means... 'Emperor Wolf'. He is Tayanita, means..." his gaze slid to Tayanita, who was shaking his head. A slow mischievous smile crept onto Sam's face before looking back at Dean and opening his mouth to tell him, only to have Tayanita interrupt him.

"Means... big brave with bigger, _da-da-s-do-di_ , spear." Tayanita made a motion low in front of himself near his groin, which had Sam laughing.

Despite the scriptures that were drilled into him, and his fear of his father, Dean's mind tended to wander where it was not supposed to, and therefore he was nowhere near as innocent in his thoughts as some of the other boys his age. He caught Tayanita's meaning, looked down to where he gestured and quickly looked up, feeling the heat creep up his neck. "Congratulations," he croaked, trying to show he could have a sense of humor. It might not be encouraged in his household, but he had always found friends who liked to joke. The laughter from Sam had him looking at that brave again, and joining in. He had one of those easy smiles, and dimples that Dean had the urge to touch with his finger and... no! There was no 'and'. 

Sam shook his head, "Do not listen to him. He only thinks his spear is big," he gave a nod, "Mine is much bigger," he chuckled again before clearing his throat and shaking his head at his friend. 

Tayanita slapped Sam on the stomach, "I see you," he gave a nod, before looking off toward one of the white girls and walking away to her. Sam watched his friend go a moment before looking back at Dean, all trace of his laughter suddenly gone as he cleared his throat. "You help, Samrat Waya?" Sam asked him, his voice softer than he had meant it to be.

Dean's eyes lingered where Tayanita had touched Sam. His own palm burned. Hearing the soft voice, he looked up guiltily. "Sorry? Yeah, yeah... I'll help," he said. It looked like the braves had dug out rows and were now putting seeds in to plant. "Race you. Ah... see who goes fastest?" He grinned, and started planting and covering the seeds, moving forward on all fours and doing the same. The brave caught on and they were moving fast and laughing at each others' efforts. It wasn't fair though. The instant Samrat Waya moved ahead, all Dean could see was his long legs and the loin cloth moving up and down, almost revealing his ass.

Pulling his gaze away, Dean put more effort into winning. Idle hands were the devil's playground. The opposite was true as well... or so he hoped.

* * * 

The sun was setting and the yu-ne-ga, white men, were all gathering for their meal at long tables set in the center clearing, between all the small dwellings. 

The Natives had their own dwellings, teepees, set up at the forest’s edge and were now all slowly walking back that way, Sam taking up the rear as he watched over his people, Tayanta by his side. Throwing a couple glances back over his shoulder at the white, preacher's son, De- ean, Sam glanced over at Tayanita shaking his head at his friend's teasing words. 

It wasn't long before the Cherokee people had eaten their own meal and drummers moved to sit around the fire. The sound of the drums echoed through the trees along with the chants that accompanied them. Dancers circled the fire, moving their bodies to the beat of the drums now that the sun had sunk down behind the land in the horizon and Father Sky was dark save for the shining moon and stars. The firelight played over darkened skin as _da-nu-wa--a-na-li-hi_ (warriors) danced in nothing but loin clothes, some of them with their faces painted. 

Samrat was among those dancing around the fire, his dance telling the story of a hunt and killing, spear in hand, his face decorated with war paint. Long red lines along his cheek bones, black fingerprint smudges underneath in the hallows of his cheeks and around his eyes giving him a fierce primitive look. Handprints dotted his nearly naked body, symbolizing those he had killed in battle. 

Dean watched from a distance, fascinated by the dancing and the flickering of firelight on tawny bodies, on the music... the drum beat that somehow made his blood feel like it was boiling. Or maybe it was that boy, Sam... that's who his eyes constantly sought, even at this distance where it was hard to make out who was who at the Indian camp. 

Hearing some hushed sounds, he turned and saw a few mothers forcing their children to sit on the other side of the table so they wouldn't see the 'heathens.' Some of the adults were talking about the impropriety of those dances, and the lack of clothes. Dean found himself tugging on the collar of his white shirt and wishing he could remove his black, tight fitting doublet. It was a warm night, and it wasn't necessary. 

"Dean, more meat?"

"Yes, mother," he answered, giving her his plate, though his eyes still strayed to the Indian camp.

* * *

As soon as he could no longer hear his parents' whispers, Dean climbed out of the second story window, gripped an overhanging beam and then dropped silently to the ground. His heart thumped against his chest as he waited and heard a dog bark, but then he started to walk, then run away from the settlement towards the fire light at the edge of the woods.

As he approached, he felt the drumbeats reverberate through his body, sending a strange sensation through him... making him want to ... dance to sway to the music. The thought was ridiculous. He stood against a tree, not too close to bother anyone or interfere, just watching in fascination. He tried not to stare at Sam too hard, in case anyone noticed, but it was hard. His painted body gleamed under the firelight and a sheen of sweat seemed to cover him. Once more, Dean wondered what it would feel like to touch him. Oh God... watching was not a good idea. It would make him want to do those things... forbidden things... more than he already did. 

Seeing the _la-tsi-do-ho-s-gi u-we-tsi_ (preacher's son) standing there so close to their area was an oddity. As much as these pale faces seemed to like their help, once it was time to feast or sleep, they seemed intent that there was an unbreakable boundary line between them. They usually never saw the whites again until the sun rose in Father Sky. 

Deciding to see what was going on, Tayanita jumped out of seemingly nowhere, next to the young man, laughing at him when he jumped and looked at him through wide, green eyes. "Why you here?"

"No reason I..." Dean stepped back. "I can leave..." He took a last glance at the dancers, tore his gaze away, and apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb. I shouldn't have..."

Tayanita shook his head, "Can not go. Samrat Waya see you," he nodded, lips curving into a smile before he looked back over his shoulder. "Samrat Waya! Samrat Waya!" he called, causing Sam to pause in dancing. Tayanita smiled as he looked back toward Dean. "I caught you a coyote," he called, chuckling. 

Stepping between those sitting around the fire, Sam walked over, his face expressionless, jaw tilted at a stubborn angle, war paint still marking his face and the bare skin of his body. " _Bhadrak_?" (handsome) he asked, looking at Dean, brows furrowing. 

Looking between the two men, Dean was at a loss. Sam really didn't look happy to see him, and Tayanita looked too happy making fun of him. "I was just watching. Going now... Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." If it weren't dark, he was sure they'd see him blush all sorts of colors. His gaze dropped, traveled down Sam's bare chest and suddenly he knew he should run from here. He started to back away and turn, closing his eyes. What had he been thinking? What had he wanted? 

Sam reached a hand out, quickly grabbing hold of Dean's in a tight grip as he shook his head, "No, _u-tsu-dv_ (going back). No, _u-tsu-dv_ ," he gently pulled Dean closer, taking a step back himself. "Stay?" 

Tayanita grinned from one to the other, before slapping Sam in the chest as he turned and walked away, smile still on his face.

"Stay," Dean's gaze had drifted back to Sam's chest, his palm warm, almost burning hot in the Indian's hand. Dean sucked in a breath, and nodded. "Yeah, I'll stay. If you’re sure." He looked at his hand, still firmly in Sam's, and looked down, a little ashamed of the feelings running through him. Feelings Sam had no idea about. These people touched each other all the time, he'd bet each touch didn't make them think of things that would send them to hell.

Sam smiled at him, giving a nod. "Stay," he repeated, slowly turning to lead Dean over to the fire, his hand slipping down to thread their fingers together as he continued to hold onto it. 

When they reached the others, Sam nudged a brave, pointing away from where he was sitting. Immediately, the young brave moved from the seat as Sam took his place and sat with his legs crossed in front of him. He looked up at Dean, their fingers still laced together, and nodded to the now vacant place. "Sit." He gave an encouraging nod. "Sit."

Looking down at his hand, his fingers curled around Sam's, Dean felt a tremble go through his body. Hoping the brave hadn't felt it, he sat down, crossing his legs like Sam and some of the others. Licking his lips, he let go of the warrior's hand, his hand slipping over the boy's smooth thigh. Dean's face jerked up, "Sorry..." He was getting hard, and not sitting in a very good position to hide it. All he could do was pray no one noticed.

Another brave spoke to Sam, asking him in Cherokee who his 'date' was, though Sam only glanced at Dean, smiling and shook his head not answering. The rest of the evening turned into sharing stories and telling jokes. Some were more colorful than Dean was used to hearing. Men and women alike sat around the fire, along with young men who were about to become braves. Smaller children were not allowed, though they lay on the grass nearby listening and laughing, talking softly amongst themselves. 

Everyone shared what they had, drinks were passed around the fire, each person taking a sip and passing it on, along with an Indian dessert of sorts made from berries that one ate with their hands, dipping into the mixture and scooping out what they wanted before passing the bowl on. A pipe was passed around and each _da-nu-wa--a-na-li-hi_ (warrior) took a long drag, offering the smoke up to the good spirits. The pipe was offered to Dean as well and everyone tried to help him to participate, even those who did not speak the white man's tongue. Sam tried to translate for Dean, though some of the white words even he did not know, and he could only gesture or shake his head as he laughed. 

Soon couples started to rise, walking away to their own teepees for the night. One by one each lone warrior left too until it was only Sam and Dean sitting before the dying embers of the fire. Sam glanced over at Dean, giving a nod, "You... had fun?" Sam asked, brow quirking.

Dean nodded. It had been a lot more fun than any of the dinners they'd had at home, that was for sure. Some of the stories the others had told had been quite salty, and he'd been pulled into those and other stories, as if he was right there, experiencing the things they talked about. It was frustrating when he hadn't understood the complete meaning of certain things, and the smoking had been... well he'd been comical in the way he'd choked. The second time the pipe was offered, he'd passed. 

"It was... a lot of fun. If you'd have been over at one of our dinners you'd fall asleep." Seeing the questioning look in Sam's eyes, he closed his own and made snoring noises.

Sam frowned, brows furrowing. "I know... sleep. I do not under - stand... why?"

"Boring. Not funny. Not... interesting. Just men with long faces," he gestured at his own face, looking serious and crossing his arms. "Talking about fields, and politics, and religion." 

 

Sam gave a nod. "Like war councils. I under - stand." He pulled to his feet, offering Dean a hand, "You want to... walk?" 

"Yeah." Dean looked at Sam's hand and slowly gave him his own. When he was pulled up, he felt a sense of loss the minute Sam released his hand. Standing next to the brave, he took a closer look at the paint marks, reaching out and almost tracing one on his chest. When he realized what he'd been about to do, he pulled back as if his fingers were burned. "Do you put it on yourself or does someone help you?" A wave of jealousy swamped him. Yet another sin. The preacher's son was going to hell. He bit his lip and started to walk. 

Sam frowned as he looked from Dean to his chest and back, not understanding why he had acted in such a way. If he wanted to touch, Sam didn't care. He was touched all the time, it wasn't like it was something to be _a-na-de-ho-s-di_ (ashamed) of. 

He started to follow after Dean. "I do some," he shrugged a shoulder, "others do some." Catching up, he looked at the young white man. "Why - do - you ask?"

"No reason. Just... curious." He looked over at Sam. "I watched you dancing. It was... beautiful." 

Sam smiled at him, "Beautiful?" he gave a nod, tearing is gaze away from Dean's to look at the ground as they walk, a soft snicker working out of him. He shrugged a shoulder. "I was to look as though hunting, fighting," he nodded before looking down again. "I will have to work on my ‘fierce face’," he gave a curt nod, even as laughter bubbled out of him. 

Dean laughed. "You looked fierce when Tayanita called you over. I thought you were angry at me for being here. Just practice that face," he nodded as they wove between the trees and headed toward the stream. 

Sam gave a nod. "I thought something was wrong." He slid a glance at Dean, "That _Bhadrak_ might be sick." The white men often came to the Cherokee when they were ill for different herbs and mixtures, remedies that they used. 

Pausing as they came to a small clearing near a _a-tsi-la-di-ye-hi_ (waterfall) whose waters spread out to a stream through the forest. Sam looked around at the ground nearby. "I am looking for us a place to lie down." Walking a few more feet to a patch of soft green grass, Sam took a seat and motioned Dean over. "Here is good," he nodded, watching Dean as he walked over.

"Lay down?" Dean's eyes widened, but he walked toward the handsome brave, like a moth drawn to a flame. Slowly, he sat down, then lay back, looking up at the night sky... and the stars. He turned his head. "Who is _Bhadrak_? Do you mean Mr. Simpson's... sheep? Baaa... you know, sheep?"

Sam looked over at him shaking his head, a smile pulling at his lips as he moved to lay down on his back beside Dean, his gaze on Father Sky. "No, not sheep. It," he sighed and licked his lips, suddenly feeling very _u-de-ho-sa-ti_ (bashful). "It is what I call you. Named you. It is what my people know you as," he gave a soft chuckle, rolling his eyes.

"Me? Oh... it means Dean." He practiced the name a few times, then looked at Sam again. "I am _Bhadrak_."

Sam smiled wider, rolling onto his side facing Dean, head propped up on a hand, elbow bent as he looked down at him, smile still held in place, dimples showing. Slowly one of Sam's legs moved, sliding over Dean's. "Yes, you are _Bhadrak_ ," he nodded, then gave a small chuckle, eyes dancing with humor and mischief. "Do not call self that, however," he shook his head. "It would sound... _u-yo-I_ , bad," he snickered. "No, it does not mean Dean."

His heart was banging so hard against his chest, Dean could barely think. Sam's leg was wreaking havoc with his senses, making him tense... making him burn... though his friend didn't even appear to notice. "I... okay, I won't." He licked his lips. "Is it an insult?" 

Sam frowned, his smile melting away. "Why would I insult you?" he asked, brows furrowing. "It is not. It means," he licked his lips and sighed, pulling back to lay on his back once more, his gaze on the sky, watching the stars twinkle. "It means, ‘handsome,’” Sam said at long last, his voice soft.

"Handsome?" Dean wished Sam hadn't moved his leg away but, on the other hand, now he could breathe. "Oh... a joke. Heh." Figured. Some of the guys at the settlement called him 'pretty'... once. Before he'd shown them he knew how to fight. It had been worth the punishment afterwards, but deep down, he wondered if they saw through him. If they knew... could read that he wasn't like them. Just like Samrat... he must have seen through him.

Sam frowned, turning onto his side again to look down at Dean as he propped his head up. "Why do you think I joke?" he asked, confusion clear on his face. He shook his head as he looked at Dean. "You are _Bhadrak_. My _Bhadrak_ ," he swallowed, leaning in closer as his leg slid back over Dean's until he was nearly straddling it, half laying on him. Sam's hand rose to cup Dean's cheek, his thumb running over his cheek bone as hazel eyes searched his face. " _A-da-nv-do_ , The Great Spirit, left kisses across your nose. Your lips," his gaze fell to those as his hand slowly slid down Dean's face, thumb running over his full bottom lip, "are as soft as sister flowers petals and stained with her red blush." His gaze darted back up to Dean's, as he shook his head again. "I do not joke." 

Heat emanated from Sam's leg, and then he was almost on top of him, and Dean was shivering with something other than cold. God would smite him down for the feelings rushing through him, right here, right now. His fingers dug into the earth and grass, as he prevented himself from touching... from feeling Sam as he wanted to. 

He bit his lip, listening to his words. "You speak... poetry," he closed his eyes when Sam's thumb slid over his lip. His breaths were coming out shallow, he'd never... not ever felt like this. "I should go home," he said. "I..." When he opened his eyes, he felt like he was drowning in Sam's. "Before I start not making any sense..." he nodded and started to gently push Sam off, though in his mind’s eye, he could see the brave laying on top of him, and then himself daring to roll them over.

Sam rolled away, onto his back then pulled to a sitting position as he looked at Dean, his gaze intent on the white man before him. Finally Sam shook his head, "I know not what is po - et - ry," he told him brow furrowing, "If it means, _a-tsi-s-ka-la_ , lie," he shook his head, "I do not." with a sigh he pulled to his feet, "If you wish to go home," he gave a nod, "I will walk you back." 

"No it means..." he bit his lip. "Beautiful speech." Indecision warred within him as he looked up at the warrior. "I want to stay, but I shouldn't." He got up. "And you shouldn't come all the way, I have to be very quiet. They don't know I'm gone." He shrugged, knowing Sam wouldn't understand, not with as free as he was to come and go.

Sam gave a nod. "They know me. I am Wohali Ahuli's son," he answered, reaching for Dean's hand. "Speech... like talk?" he asked, "Your... speech, is very... confusing." Giving a nod, he tore his gaze away to look back the way they had come.

"Speech, yes... like art... Like _Bhadrak_ speech." He didn't know how to put it better. He looked at Sam's hand, now in his. "I never held anyone's hand before." He looked up into Sam's eyes. "Married people... men and women... they do that," he whispered, tightening his hold on Sam, despite his words.

Sam smiled, his gaze returning to Dean's. " _Bhadrak_ speech?" he gave a soft chuckle, nodding. At Dean's next words he frowned, tilting his head. "You held your _u-ne-tsi_..." he looked down at the ground trying to think of the new speech word for it, "mother's hand," he said as he looked back at him. "Yes?" he asked, "And married people do a lot more than hold hands, _Bhadrak_ ," he told him with a small smile. He shook his head frowning, "Not all who..." he licked his lips trying to think of a more delicate word than the one he had heard said by Dean's father as he shouted it so loudly from the church, that they had all heard it in the fields. "Mates," he settled on that one, nodding, "are _a-s-ga-ya_ , male and _a-ge-yv_ , female," he told Dean, hazel eyes staring into stunning greens. 

Dean understood because inside him, he had always known he wasn't like the others... and here were a people who didn't care, wouldn't consider his soul damned, wouldn't want to hang him for his thoughts and actions. His eyes stung, filled with tears, and he looked away. "It's not allowed... not for us," he said, taking his hand back. "You are lucky," he whispered, and started to walk away. He had a lot to think about. The feelings the warrior evoked in him. The touches, and what they meant. Were they casual, or did he mean he liked him like... And even if so, what then? 

Sam frowned as he glanced down at the hand that Dean had released before he looked back, watching him walk away. Running after him, as silently as only an Indian could, Sam rushed in front of him, grabbing and shoving his back up against a nearby tree, pressing him into it with his body as hazel eyes burned into green. "No, _Bhadrak_ , we are lucky. It is not every day that a brave finds the one he wants." Sam's gaze didn't waver, didn't back down as he spoke. "If you disagree tell me now, and I will not bother you again." Sam stared into Dean’s eyes, searched them for the truth as he stood there, unflinching, not budging an inch.

If his heart could have exploded, it would have right there and then. Wide eyed, Dean stared at the boy that lit all sorts of fires in him, made him question, made him want. And now Sam was telling him what was in his heart, not making him guess, and demanding a truthful answer. He opened is mouth and nothing came out at first. He licked his lips, trying to find the courage, even as the pressure of Sam's body against his own wreaked havoc with his sense.

Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. "I’ve... never done anything like... like this," he hoped the brave didn't think he was an idiot, though he felt like one. "But... I see you, and I dream... dream of this," he said, grabbing the warrior's muscular arms, and reversing their positions, so his own body pressed Samrat up against the tree, his cock ... now hard.. ground into the near naked warrior's thigh. "But it’s not allowed. I wish..." He pulled away slowly, his gaze now on the warrior's lips.

Sam gave a nod. "So my brothers and sisters, the animals, are wrong!? What Great Spirit put in you this wrong!?" Sam asked, voice raised, his breaths heavier, chest rising and falling with them. "Fine. If that is what you want," Sam told him, voice softer as he stepped away from the tree, turning to go. Pausing he turned on the balls of his feet to face Dean. "I leave you, _Bhadrak_ , with this." Sam told him as he took a step closer to Dean, hands rising to cup Dean's face as he leaned in, slanting his mouth over Dean's, kissing him hard, mouth open as he sucked Dean’s bottom then top lip, his tongue darting between them to taste. Pulling his head slowly back, Sam released him and turned, walking off the way they had come.

A soft moan tore from Dean's throat. He touched his burning lips as the brave walked away from him, wishing he'd done more than just stand there. Wishing... he swallowed. Waiting until Sam was out of view, he turned around and headed back to the settlement. He would never forget this, never. He could still hear Sam calling him handsome, and saying all those nice things go him, could imagine laying on top of Sam and letting him whisper those things in his ear. As he crossed the threshold into the settlement, never had he wished more than at this moment that he was someone else, someone brave and free.

* * *

For the next three days, Dean suffered. At nights, his body ran hot and cold. He had to wait until his parents were asleep, until he was sure no one would check on him, then he broke all the rules, touched himself between his legs. Eyes closed, he thought about Samrat Waya dancing in front of the fire, his powerful muscles shifting, his firm flesh hardly moving as his feet repeatedly struck the ground to the beat of the drums. The fierce look in his face, the intensity of his eyes focusing solely on Dean, promising him the same heat that burned the fires next to him.

Lips parted, breaths leaving him in gasps as his hips rose to push his cock into his closed fist, Dean could feel Sam's bare leg across his thighs, moving slightly higher as he straddled him. He imagined daring to touch Sam's chest, his sides... his legs. Imagined Sam riding his body, as he would a horse. Heat, unlike any he'd felt before, swept through his body. Dean turned on his side, stroking himself faster, images layering in his mind... of himself pressing Sam against that tree, of his mouth seeking Sam's, of kissing him, of rolling around on the grass with him, bodies sliding together. "Unghhh... God.... ungh..." he turned his face and bit the pillow as his seed spilled over his hand, coating it.

As the terrible need loosened its grasp on him, Dean felt waves of shame. He was weak. He was a sinner. He would burn in hell. But remembering that kiss... he wondered if it would be worth it.

Each time his father's eyes fell on him, that same sense of worthlessness overtook him. But that didn't stop him from looking for Sam every day, when he went to the fields after his lessons. The warrior was nowhere to be found. 

He didn't know why he felt this way, like he couldn't settle down. Maybe if he saw the boy who called him handsome, it would ease the tension in him. It made his heart flutter every time he thought about the nickname. Each time he thought about what Sam had said before he kissed him, his breath would catch. And then he'd get yelled at for not having listened to someone, or for day dreaming. 

On the third night, a warm evening, he stole away again. Walking as soundlessly as he could, he approached the tepees and watched from the trees. Stories were being told and someone was reenacting something, Dean couldn't understand any of it, but he watched even as his eyes darted around looking for a tall, lean warrior, one that he could not stop thinking about. 

Tayanita frowned looked up toward where Samrat Waya's Dean was obviously trying to hide. Did he not understand how his clothing showed? Did he not hear the sounds he made? Walking over, the warrior looked up. "You now are... _ka-la-gv-na_ , sparrow?"

Startled, Dean allowed a swear word to pass his lips. "No," he searched the warrior’s face, but really not in the mood to be teased, he stepped away. "I was on my way to... I heard noise," he shook his head. "See you ... some time." Yeah, what he wanted to ask was where Sam had gone off to. 

Tayanita frowned at Dean, tilting his head to the side as he looked at him. Pulling his head slowly back up he jutted his chin at him. "Where you go?"

"Ah... it's hot. I was going... swimming." Forcing a smile, he took a couple more steps back. "Water... you know, the stream." Yeah, it was best he stop babbling like an idiot. 

Tayanita's lips slowly curved into a smile, even as his dark eyes narrowed slightly. With a nod, he smiled wider, showing rows of teeth. "I know... water. Come," he told Dean, turning slightly as he waved a hand. "I show you niyunwiya, where Cherokee, swim. Come."

Dean understood that Tayanita wanted to show him a safe place to swim. There would be no harm in going there, waiting for the brave to leave, and then leaving himself. If he walked away now, he'd look even more like an idiot. Giving a sharp nod, he followed Sam's friend, deeper into the woods and in another direction than the one that he'd taken with Sam. Again, it was on the tip of his tongue to ask where that particular brave was right now. Then again, maybe it was better to keep away from him.

The deeper area of the woods slowly opened up to a gushing waterfall with a deep pool below it, surrounded by large boulders on either side. The water was deep and d clear, though a person had to nearly shout to be heard over the rushing waters of the falls. 

Tayanita turned to look back at Dean, stepping to the side so he could see the area, as well as just who else was there. "Swim." 

Sam rose above the surface of the water, hair wet and clinging to his face, before he raised his hands, pushing his dark hair back, blinking the water from his eyes. It was a warm night and he had been unable to get thoughts of one certain yu-ne-ga (white man) out of his head. 

Glancing over toward the shoreline, Sam's gaze first fell on Tayanita, a small smile pulled at his lips, before it quickly melted away seeing who stood with him.

Dean sucked his breath in. "Sam." He swallowed, and looked at the brave next to him. Now he understood that sneaky smile. He rested his hand against a tree trunk and looked back at Sam, clearing his throat. "You're... here. Clearly."

Sam's gaze darted back to Tayanita, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed before he leaned into the water, swimming over and stopping just in front of them. Sam looked up at his friend, "Why did you bring him? He doesn't want to be here. I told you. Take him home," Sam told Tayanita in their native tongue, not even bothering to speak to Dean or address him in any way. 

"He wanted to swim. It's not my fault you are here. Maybe you should go," Tayanita replied, again only in Cherokee, a mischievous smirk pulling at his lips. 

Sam glared at his friend before smacking the water, splashing him. Tearing his gaze away from Tayanita, he looked over at Dean, jutting his chin at him. "You swim?" he asked, his gaze raking over his attire, "dressed?"

Dean’s head snapped back and forth between the two braves rapidly speaking their language, then Sam was questioning him and not in a too friendly way. It bugged him. "Why? Is it a private pool?" he shot back, seeing exactly why the Indians favored this spot.

Sam's lips curved into a smile, a challenging one as he swam backward a few strokes, his gaze roaming over Dean's frame. "Undress. Swim."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting - The story takes place in a fictional English settlement in the American colonies in the mid to late 1600s. A bountiful harvest leads to a Thanksgiving Feast shared by the Colonists and the local Cherokee Indians. Dean Winchester, the son of a preacher, finds himself attracted to an Indian brave, Sam. Coming of age type story. No HEA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Historical note:**
> 
> "In 1621, the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians shared an autumn harvest feast which is acknowledged today as one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations in the colonies. This harvest meal has become a symbol of cooperation and interaction between English colonists and Native Americans. Although this feast is considered by many to be the very first Thanksgiving celebration, it was actually in keeping with a long tradition of celebrating the harvest and giving thanks for a successful bounty of crops. Native American groups throughout the Americas, including the Pueblo, Cherokee, Creek and many others organized harvest festivals, ceremonial dances, and other celebrations of thanks for centuries before the arrival of Europeans in North America. Historians have also recorded other ceremonies of thanks among European settlers in North America..." 
> 
> ** Author's Notes:  **
> 
> (1) In AU fics, we usually try to bring Sam and Dean's strongest character traits with them so that they are recognizable. It is often difficult to write the boys completely in character in other time periods. We note that in this case, not only is the story set in a different time in history, but the characters are also young and inexperienced, and this made it more difficult to pull the show characters' traits (such as confidence, cockiness, etc...)through. Anyway, we gave it our best. 
> 
> (2) We are aware that the Cherokee are not the best match for the time period/setting of the story (there are other tribes which would more likely have been trading with the colonists in this time period etc…), however the authors were more familiar with Cherokee culture and took that route. We have taken artistic license with the story and the art (i.e. the attire used is not Cherokee) so this is not the place to seek a history lesson or absolute cultural truths. Please take this for what it is – fanfication with no toplofty goals of teaching any lessons and which, in case it is not obvious, should not be mistaken as a researched work that anyone will rely on for accuracy.
> 
> (3) For those of you entrenched in the belief that writing about other cultures or including other cultures in fiction is some sort of “cultural appropriation” that should be disallowed, please do not raise your standard/flag here. We respectfully disagree. Art is inspired by many things, including by things (history, language, clothing, experiences) from other cultures and things from beyond the realm of the writer/artist’s own experience. Art can often be traced back to old art, it recombines old art, adds to it and makes new art. We like it that way and reject the stifling counter-view. If this offends you, please click your back button and spare yourself.

Dean ran his hand through his hair. What had he gotten himself into? He glanced at both of the braves, his heart stuttering when Tayanita left him alone with Sam. He waited another moment, hoping Sam would turn his back, swim away while he undressed, but having no such luck, he slowly shrugged his doublet off. His fingers worked the ties at the collar of his white shirt, then moved down to unbutton it. 

Samrat Wa-ya watched Dean, his gaze unflinching as Dean slid off the black coat that Sam had always thought looked far too confining. Watched as Dean's fingers worked with the tiny pearl closures that held his clothing together... buttons. His gaze darted back up to meet with Dean's eyes dark, hazel clashing with brilliant green. " _A-s-ga-s-di_? Afraid?"

"Should I be?" Hell, on the inside, Dean was shivering. But he was damned if he was going to show it. Lifting his chin, he finished opening up his shirt, then he toed his boots off. His hand went to the buckle of his breeches, faltering under the weight of Sam's gaze. He forced his numb fingers to work, but moved a little slower.

Sam merely shrugged a shoulder in answer, a smirk pulling at his lips. His gaze lowered at Dean's now bare well muscled chest, his pale skin dotted with kisses from the _u-ne-qua_ ( Great Spirit). Licking the moisture from his lips, Sam's gaze darted back up to Dean's as he waited, treading water.

"Did I grow a tail or something?" Dean asked, thinking it was rude staring like that. Never mind that he did his own share of staring when the brave was unaware. He shrugged his shirt off, and hanged it on the branch of a tree, feeling too naked, feeling like Sam could see through to his soul.

Sam's smile grew at Dean's question. "A tail? Tayanita did say you were, _wa-ya_ , coyote." He frowned slowly, his gaze never leaving Dean's. "Why do you wear so much? So many clothes."

"How come you don't wear any?" He countered, looking up and praying for the courage to disrobe. His hands pushed down his breeches, and once he had them down his thighs, he quickly stepped out of them and all but dove into the water. He came up sputtering, and panicked, looking around for Sam, then stilled when he saw the brave cutting gracefully through the water toward him.

Coming to a stop before Dean, Sam cocked his head to the side as he looked at him. "I wear clothes. I do not wear so many I can not move nor breathe," he reached up, pulling a hand out of the water to playfully flick the end of Dean's nose, "like you," he told him. "So many layers make Samrat slow," he shook his head. "I cannot be... slow. Am, _da-nu-wa--a-na-li-hi_ , warrior." His gaze stayed on Dean's face.

Initially, Dean jerked back from Sam's touch, then grinned. But his comment stung him. "I am not slow. Who did the most rows of planting," he challenged. He hadn't won, but he hadn't lost either. He swam back a little, looking right back at Sam. " _Da-nu-wa--a-na-li-hi_ ," he practiced the word, then said it again, only this time he said 'handsome warrior,' then ducked under the water and swam away, afraid of what he'd see in the brave's eyes.

Sam smiled before dipping under the water, swimming after Dean. He didn't stop swimming until Dean did, though he waited as long as he could before coming up for air directly in front of Dean, so close their warm breaths fanned one another’s' faces as they breathed. " _Bhadrak da-nu-wa-a-na-li-hi_?" Sam nodded, "I am." He laughed at the look Dean gave him. Slowly, Sam's laughter died away, his gaze becoming intense as hazel orbs stared into green. Tongue darting out, Sam licked his lips before he leaned in more, his lips a hairs breath away from Dean's. "S-qua-nu-s-ta, Kiss me."

I don't know how. No, he wasn't going to admit that. I might drown. Well, it might be worth it. One stroke, and Dean's mouth was pressed over Samrat Waya's. His eyes fluttered shut, he pressed harder, this time allowing his tongue to delve into the brave's mouth, the way Sam had shown him before, the way he'd dreamed about since that night. He stroked Sam's tongue, twisted his around the other boy's, and instantly, feelings of need washed over him. He wanted to kiss harder, but it was hard ... swimming and trying to press against him.

Sam's arms wrapped around Dean, his eyes slowly closing, dark lashes fanning over high cheekbones. Sam moaned softly as Dean's tongue slid against his, twisting around it. Pressing him closer, Sam turned his head, kissed him harder, his tongue mapping out Dean's mouth the tip running over the roof, the backs of his teeth, his head continuing to slide from side to side. 

So good, much better than in his dreams. Dean put his own arms around Sam, leaning closer before sinking them both like a rock. He squirmed out of Sam's hold, and got back to the surface, coughing. "Sorry." He licked his lips. "Can we... try it again? S-qua-nu-s-ta. Where I can stand?" he asked, his heart thundering, threatening to explode. 

Sam wiped the water out of his face after rising back to the surface, a smirk pulling at his lips though he fought to contain it. Giving a nod, he jutted his chin toward the shore. "We find a place to lay down?"

"Lay down." Dean swallowed again. "I think you should put more clothes on. So you can go slower." He gave a self conscious smile, not knowing whether Sam would understand his joke. But he swam backwards, toward the shore, eyes on the handsome brave.

Sam smiled, but still looked slightly confused. He didn't ask for an explanation, instead diving down into the water as he swam for the shore. Once reaching where his feet could touch the bottom, Sam walked out, his gaze intent on Dean. "My dress bothers you?" he asked, as he walked fully out, exposing the fact that he was completely naked, bare feet making no sound as he moved across the ground.

Dean stood with the water at his waist, eyes glued to the warrior's back side, a strange thrill running through him, making it hard to breathe. Sam was as beautiful as some of the angels in painting and etchings he'd seen. "No. Your dress is... perfect," he answered thickly. Making a dash for the trees, Dean snatched his shirt off the branch and wrapped it around his waist before following Sam. 

Selecting a large boulder with a smooth flat surface, Sam climbed up on it, and laid back, leaving plenty of room for Dean to lay beside him. One leg raised, bent at the knee, foot flat against the rocks smooth surface, Sam turned his head toward Dean, lifting a hand, holding it out toward him. " _E-he-na_. Come."

Taking his hand, Dean pulled up onto the rock, and sat next to the brave. He tried to keep his gaze on his face, even though he was dying to look him over. He reached out and brushed Sam's long hair back, touching the feathers tied into some of the strands. Then he used both hands, his fingers carding through silky soft hair, pushing it back from Sam's forehead as he leaned down over him. "Kiss you now?"

Sam's dark hazel gaze moved, watching every thing Dean did, every small motion, darting up toward his forehead as Dean pushed his hair back, then back to his face as Sam's tongue darted out, the tip running along his lips. Hands moving to Dean's sides, Sam held onto him, gazing intently into his eyes. He gave a small nod. "Now," he answered, lips parting in invitation as his eyelids slowly lowered. 

Dean slanted his open mouth over Sam's, his tongue immediately delving inside. His tongue was surrounded by silky wet heat. He licked every corner of Sam's mouth, learning, memorizing it... his taste. He recognized the slight sweetness as that from the berry dessert he'd been served. It tasted better on the brave. 

Slowly, he brought one hand down, his palm tracing over the contours of Sam's face, holding him in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing with Sam's. He dared to slide his hand down lower, over the smooth column of Sam's throat, and then to his chest. His hand trembled, he was unsure, but he wanted to know... needed to know how this handsome warrior felt. 

 

Sam moaned softly into the kiss, tilting his head back slightly, giving the, _u-de-ho-sa-ti yu-ne-ga_ (bashful white man) better access to his neck, his throat.

Breaking the kiss, feeling like his mouth was swollen... like maybe he'd kissed too hard, Dean swallowed and ran both hands up and down Sam's sides. His mouth burned, his mind burned with images of things he'd only dreamed and imagined. "Can I... I want to kiss you ... here," he whispered, touching Sam's chest once again. "If... if you want." That old guilt was never far away, always gnawing inside him.

Sam's head tilted down slightly as Dean broke the kiss, dark hazel staring intently into brilliant green. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, lips that tasted of this young man, his _Bhadrak_. They burned to taste him again, his body burned to taste more than just his lips, but he held still, simply gazing at the, beautiful young man. The feel of his hands, slightly calloused, but still much softer than that of a warrior, sliding up and down his sides, against his skin, had Sam wanting more, wanting to touch and explore Dean, but he held back. This one scared as easily as brother and sister _a-wi_ (deer).

Lips firmly pressed together as he gazed at Dean, he glanced down at his own chest as Dean touched him there, before he looked back up, hazel locking once more with green. Giving a small curt nod, Sam allowed his hands at Dean's waist to slid up a little, then back down. before pulling them away. "You may touch, _ni-ga-nv-quo_ , anything you wish," he answered softly.

His heart lurched. "I... I dreamed about this. More than once," admitted. Seeing no censure in Sam's eyes, Dean bent down, running his fingertips down Sam's chest and lowering his mouth to follow the same trail. The first touch of his lips against smooth skin sent a jolt through his body, drawing a soft moan out of Dean. He wanted to taste. Would that be too obscene? He didn't know, but Sam had said anything he wished. He sucked on taut skin stretched over muscle, feeling the brave shudder under him. He moved his mouth, did it again, this time daring to drag his tongue along the center of Sam's chest.

 

The feel of Dean's lips against his skin had Sam licking his lips and swallowing hard as he fought not to move. It wasn't something he was used to. He was free to do as he wished when he wished, but he didn't want to scare Dean, didn't want him to stop, to think he had done something wrong, or for Sam to push him farther than he was willing to go. The moan that sounded from Dean sent blood surging straight to Sam's cock. When Dean sucked on his skin, Sam couldn't control the small shudder that racked his frame as his lips parted on a small moaned gasp. Small moans and soft gasps of breath left Sam as Dean continued his timid exploration of his body.

With each passing moment, Dean became a little braver, a little more confident in his explorations. By the time he kissed Sam's abs, the soft sounds from the brave were reassuring... telling him he wasn't making any blunders. Lifting his head, he repositioned his mouth, this time over Sam's dark, sun kissed nipple, sucking on it hard. His cock surged... filling with blood, aching to be touched. Forcing his mind away from the pulsing between his legs, he went to suck Sam's other nipple, his hands still exploring the brave's body, but never moving down past his hips.

As Dean's mouth closed around his nipple, Sam gasped, arching into the feel of it as his hands clenched into fists at his sides, neck tilting back.

Dean was breathing hard, his breaths coming out rough and fast. Eyes burning with a need he didn't quite understand, he started to lower himself over Sam, daring to throw his leg across his body like Sam had done three nights ago.

Sam's breaths were panting out, his cock hard and heavy between his legs. As Dean started to lower himself over him, Sam couldn't not touch any longer. He wrapped his arms around Dean and pulled him down on top of himself. Sliding one hand slowly downward toward the shirt that Dean had protectively tied about his waist, he stilled his hand at Dean's hip as he gazed up at him, hazel orbs searching his face. " _Bhadrak_?" Sam murmured softly, voice deep and rough with lust.

He could feel Samrat Waya's erection right through the material of his shirt, and he knew that Sam must feel his own arousal pressing into his hip. Every slight movement Sam made sent shocks of heat through Dean's body, sending messages to his brain, making him want to buck... to thrust against him as he had in his own fist. The need was so strong, he knew it was a lost battle. Then Sam spoke his name, his voice echoing Dean's need. He nodded, then immediately lowered his mouth over Sam's.

He kissed Sam deeply, his tongue tangling with the warrior's, his mouth crushing against already swollen lips. It was as if a floodgate had opened, and he couldn't get enough. "Sam... I..." he moved against him then, unable to stop, thrusting lightly, then more desperately. "I... oh God..." he locked his mouth with his beautiful warrior's, stopping the stem of unintelligible sounds that threatened to tear from his throat as he tried to deal with the sensations building inside him.

Sam moaned into Dean's mouth, holding him a little tighter, fighting not to do what his body was screaming for him to do. Thrust up against him. Pull the shirt away. Touch, feel, caress his flesh as he had done to Sam's own. Learn what made Dean feel good, show him that this was not, _u-yo-i_ , bad. 

When the kiss broke, Sam saw his need reflected back at him in Dean's eyes, in the nearly pained look upon his handsome face. Samrat gave a nod to Dean's unfinished plea, wanting just as badly as he did. The first small thrust against him had Sam arching and thrusting back against Dean, mimicking the gesture, no harder than Dean had done, moving slowly for his timid _Bhadrak_. 

As Dean began to move faster, Sam matched the rhythm, his hand at Dean's hip moving, thumb tucking in between material and flesh, snagging it away, so that flesh rubbed against flesh, Sam's hands sliding up and down Dean's back, lowering to cup his ass, pressing Dean down against him as he thrust upward briefly. Low moans and groans breaking from Sam's throat as they moved. " _S-qua-nu-s-ta, s-qua-nu-s-ta_ , kiss me," Sam panted the words out breathlessly as he groaned and searched out Dean's mouth, crushing them together. His tongue darting inside to slide against Dean's, kissing him hard, teeth clanking together, head sliding from side to side as his hips continued to thrust, sliding their cocks together.

The sensation of skin sliding against skin had Dean groaning. Dreaming, he had to be dreaming. It couldn't be him kissing Sam like this, it couldn't be him touching the warrior all over, with his hands, with his body, learning him with all his senses, drawing in his fresh woodsy scent, tasting... loving his flavor. That couldn't be his own voice, thick with need, calling to the brave. His mouth ravaging Sam's, his hips moving hard, his cock rubbing against another man's. But it was... it was him, and this was real, so real. So real it both ached and felt good.

He rolled over, taking Sam with him, looking up as long wet hair surrounded his face. "S-qua-nu-s-ta," he demanded. Then they were kissing again, and rolling over and over, knees getting wedged between legs, heat rising. When it became too much, Dean pushed Sam back under him and started to thrust, rubbing himself harder and harder against his brave's hip. "I... " Heat coiled low in his belly, had him jerking. "Sam... Ungh..." he put his hands between them, and gripped his own cock... it was the only thing he knew, the thing that helped with this... this heat that was upon him.

 

Sam's eyes were closed as he thrust back against Dean, the ache to come so strong he was groaning, arching, nearly writhing as he moved under him, but then his eyes snapped open as Dean spoke, looking up into his face, flushed with arousal, lips parted, breaths panting out. His _Bhadrak_. The look of tortured anguish on his face, Dean's broken cry of his name had Sam lifting his head up, looking down their bodies.

Sam reached down, long fingers curling around Dean's wrist, pulling his hand away from his own cock as he lifted his legs, bent at the knees, feet flat against the rock, trapping Dean where he wanted him against him, chest to chest, groin to groin, their cocks sliding together as Sam moved his hips under Dean, thrusting against him.

Bringing Dean's wrist Sam up to his face, Sam turned his head, slowly sucking the tip of Dean's index finger into his mouth, then his middle finger, moving slowly to each finger, sucking each tip, at first his eyes closed, moans and groans tearing from his throat, but soon, Sam's eyes opened to mere slits as he peered at Dean from the corner of his eye and sucked on the last two fingers.

Initially, Dean wanted to protest when Sam prevented him from touching himself. Then the brave had them repositioned, and each time Dean moved against him, their cocks rubbed together... hard. He got the same pressure as from his fist, only it was more exciting... it was Sam... the boy he imagined when he fisted himself. This was better. Only he had no idea how much better it could be until Sam started to suck his fingers. Holy... It felt... suggestive somehow, though his cloudy mind couldn't make sense of it. Only that it made him buck harder against the warrior, had him kissing his face as he dipped another finger in the warm wet depths of his mouth.

Slowly releasing Dean's hand, Sam wrapped his arm back around Dean, heat spiraling through Sam's body to pool low in his belly. His hands slowly running over Dean's back as he thrust up against him. "Cum with me, _Bhadrak_ ," Sam told him softly, voice husky and deep, breathless.

"Where?" He thought the vessel at his temple would explode if they stopped now to go somewhere, but then Sam was thrusting against him harder, with more purpose... and Dean understood. Letting go... letting go of everything, he locked gazes with his brave and fucked against him, harder and harder, head thrown back, and returning to watch... needing to see the things he was going through reflected in Sam's face. 

His gaze locked with Dean's, Sam panted his breaths through parted lips, arching and thrusting against him, holding onto him as if he might slip away if he didn't hold on tight enough. 

He felt Sam's fingers bite into back, and a low sound worked its way out of Dean's throat. His body tensed, arched into Sam's, his balls drawing painfully up against his body. "Sam," he whispered, covering the brave's mouth wish his as he came. 

Sam felt his balls draw up tight as they moved erratically against one another, clung to each other. Dean's mouth crushing down against his, tasting his lover once more seemed to be the final push as Sam grit his teeth, neck arching back, eyes squeezing tightly closed.

Dean's seed and the braves spilled... spreading hotly across both their bellies. He closed his eyes, riding Sam's body, the way he was riding the waves of pleasure coursing through him. 

Sam's eyes opened, lips parting as he panted his breaths, blinking through the passion glaze that seemed to have his mind in a fog as he held onto Dean, still rocking, thrusting slowly against him. Slowly Sam's eyes sought and found Dean's. "Was," he swallowed, panting, "was good as, _a-s-gi-da-sv-hi_ , dreamed?"

"Hmmm?" Dean smiled tiredly at his lover, still moving against him, loving him. "Better... better than my dreams." He collapsed over his brave, and whispered against his ear. "If God strike's me dead for loving you, it would still be worth it. I love you, Sam." He kissed his brave's shoulder, and rested there, refusing to think anymore about the ramifications of his actions.

 

Sam's heart swelled over his _Bhadrak_ 's words, one hand sliding up his back, gripping a shoulder, pressing him against his chest as Sam closed his eyes. "I love you, my, _a-si-u-le e-hu_ (lover)." Sam mumbled softly, lifting his head slightly to drop a soft kiss against Dean's shoulder, before laying it back down against the rock. 

 

* * *

Over the next two months, Dean spent a lot of time with Sam and his people. Having an affinity for language, he'd volunteered to learn Cherokee. That had earned him a lot of free hours after his studies. Hours where he could join Sam and his tribe, and he sometimes even took his doublet and shirt off, when he was sure no one from the settlement would see him. They'd go swimming, and make love by the water... while Dean learned the language. 

His love for Sam grew, together with his love for Sam's people and family. They never made him feel different and always included him in everything they could. There were times when he was barred of course, when it came to decision making or business that involved only braves. Sam was teaching him the skills that the braves had, and he had quite an affinity for them. He liked nothing more than to please Sam, to surprise him with how well he did, and to match him... though sometimes he wondered if the brave just let him.

 

Sam had made Dean a belt like the braves wore, complete with the same deer skin ‘purse’ suspended from the belt. A knife made of flint, obsidian, or copper, with a wooden or bone handle was worn on the right side of the belt. Sam also gave Dean an anklet to wear, it was a gift that was traditionally given to a brave from their wife, however Sam had asked one of the women in the tribe to make one for him to give to Dean. There were also bracelets, but Sam thought Dean would be better able to hide the anklet when he was home.

One evening after the fires had begun to die down, at Sam's request, one of the young maidens came to sit beside Sam and Dean. They only spoke to one another in their native tongue, before she reached for his hand and placed it in her lap, then began to prick the skin of Sam's shoulder. Sensing Dean's gaze on them, reading the confusion in his eyes, Sam reached over and held his hand as she worked. Once she finished, she rubbed the wound with ashes from a fire, to give the tattoo a dark color. Sam smiled and thanked her, showing Dean his coyote paw print, winking at him due to Tayanita’s first joke about Dean being a coyote. 

While Dean's people had politics and battles of their own, including a fight against the devil that Dean's father would shout about from his church in the center of town, the Cherokee had their own growing troubles. Battles with the Iroquois, Catawba and Chickasaw were growing. More than once during the short span of time, Samrat Waya had been pulled away on warpath against one or more of these tribes, leaving Dean to wonder about his welfare for days at a time. When he would return however, no matter when it was, Dean seemed to find a way to sneak off and come to him. They would kiss and hold one another, Dean checking Sam over for mystery wounds that Sam would laugh about until finally once Dean's troubled heart had been put to rest, they would make love.

Dean felt more at home with Sam's people than with his. At home, he wore the stiff clothing expected of him, had to fend off potential plans to have him married off and give his 'wife' children, and too often, he had to listen to the slurs against the 'red man.' It was true, many of the settlers had made friends with their neighbors, but it was also true that many considered them heathens, beneath them. Some of the town fathers, the very ones who planned this Thanksgiving Feast, they said that as more came from Europe, the Indians would either need to change or be pushed back. When Dean questioned his father about it, the preacher told him it was destiny and there was no stopping it.

Dean didn't believe it. He rebelled against the idea. And he turned eighteen. One day, when he was making love with Samrat Waya, he asked if he could stay for good. He wanted to be Cherokee. 'Yes', his brave said 'yes'. The tribe would move when winter came, and Dean would sneak away with them to find a new life. It was decided that they'd leave right after the feast.

* * *

The day of the feast was upon them. All day long, there were preparations, both at the settlement and at the Indian camp. The scent of food cooking permeated the air, and had Dean hungry all the time. His mother, and other women yelled at him when he tried to steal a piece of bread, or get a taste of the stew, or pilfer the corn. 

He was forced to wear his finest clothing, which meant his most uncomfortable clothing. Samrat Waya would have a field day teasing him. Dean cursed under his breath, then looked around to make sure no one hear him. Then he strode out to where the long tables were set out, feeling the distinct glare from Mr. Roberts, who was still incensed by the fact that Dean had refused to consider a marriage with his daughter. When he'd complained about the Roberts to Sam, his brave had made the most outrageous suggestions, telling him to say she did not have the proper... equipment, that he needed a mate that was as strong as a bull... and many other suggestions that had Dean in stitches.

He'd thought that families would have to sit together, but was pleasantly surprised. Indians and Englishmen mixed, sitting almost randomly at the tables. Dean spotted Sam and his right hand, Tayanita. Grinning, he went and stood next to Samrat, greeting the men in Cherokee, then talking to the others in English. He was aware of some of the stares from the next table. Some had questioned why it was necessary for him to learn Cherokee when the Cherokee had their own interpreters and should learn the God-given English language anyway. They probably didn't like that he was speaking in Cherokee right now. 

Sam had dressed in his finest clothes as had all of the other Cherokee who had come down to the meal. Not all of them had of course, the very old and the very young, those with babes and those with ailments were left behind at the camp and would eat from their own supplies of food. Sam's breechclout was one that hung lower than the others he normally wore, nearly to his knees. His moccasins were tall and laced up the front to his knees. Around his neck hung thong necklaces that consisted of bone, claws, and teeth.

 

Chief Wohali Ahuli waved at Sam to sit with him at the table. Walking over, Sam was pleased to see Dean join them, his smile growing wider until it was full blown, dimples showing. " _O-si-yo-do, Bhadrak_ ," he greeted Dean softly, glancing up at the others to be sure no one else saw or heard them. His father of course made sure to cough fakely and roll his eyes at the two 'love birds', chuckling softly when Sam looked over at him. 

Looking back at Dean, Sam smiled, "You look... tight," he told Dean with a nod, frowning as his gaze roamed over what he could see of his _Bhadrak_.

It was Dean's turn to choke. He glared at Sam and answered him in slightly broken but always improving Cherokee, "we shall see who is tight." It had been several days since they'd seen each other, and tonight... He licked his lips. "You are as pretty as a bride," he said, having picked up his brave's joking habits.

Sam chuckled softly though Tayanita burst out laughing across the table from them. Sam turned his head and narrowed his eyes at his friend before looking back at Dean, "And you remind me of brother Otter..." he told Dean in his native tongue, one hand slowly sliding down to rest on the knife at his hip. "Maybe tonight I skin you," he suggested, voice low before he waggled his brows and chuckled softly.

Knowing Sam meant get rid of the clothes, Dean muttered, "I hope you do." He didn't smile, but laughter filled his eyes. That, and hope. He would be a little sad to leave his family, his home, but he could never truly belong with them, not like he did with the Cherokee, and with Sam. 

Sam smiled at Dean, reaching over with the hand that had been at his blade, to squeeze Dean's hand under the table briefly. Sam cleared his throat, glancing around before he looked back at Dean, "Man does not measure the stars. It is a gift he cannot count. So it is with my love for you. How can I tell you of my love? Strong as the eagle, soft as the dove, patient as the pine tree that stands in the sun and whispers to the wind...'You are the one!'" he quoted, smiling. Before Dean could say anything, Sam shook his head, "I didn't create it," he shrugged a shoulder, "It's been passed down among my people for ages now. I do not know who said it first, but... it fits... yes?"

Dean felt the color rise to his cheeks but nodded. "You are the one," he whispered, unable to compete with Sam when it came to words of love. Maybe someday he would get better at it, and maybe someday he wouldn't feel like swooning like a girl when Sam spoke to him that way. "But I am not that patient. I want the night to end."

Sam smiled at Dean and chuckled, his gaze catching sight of Tayanita grinning at them. "Told you my spear was bigger than yours," he told his friend in his native tongue. Both braves cracked up laughing.

The meal began, Dean's father saying grace for the white man and Sam's father saying it for their people. Food was passed and offered to all, some of the items were known to each people, some were not. Food was bountiful and weighed down the tables.

By the time all of the food was eaten and talk was had, the sun had begun to dip low in the horizon. One by one the Cherokee excused themselves to return to their camp, thanking their new white brothers for the meal and good talk.

It was then that Sam looked over at Dean. "Meet me? In our spot, near the water?" he asked in his Native tongue as he pulled to his feet, Tayanita along with him.

Dean's heart tumbled. "Yes," he answered. It was time for him to collect his things. The celebration would continue and no one would notice he was gone, until it was too late, and he and Sam were already well on their way to finding the next camp for the Cherokee.

* * *

Dean spend a few moments first with his father, who waved him off as he was in the middle of talking politics, and then with his mother. However when she turned to talk to asking him what he thought about one of the girls, Dean talked his way out of her presence. Very quickly, he went to his room and took the few items he would want. He left a note under his pillow, he'd penned it earlier. He didn't want his parents to worry, but he didn't' tell them he was staying with the Cherokee. He told them he was going adventuring, to find new lands and meet new people.

His heart was a little heavy as he sneaked out of the settlement one last time, but it was as if Sam had known. He was waiting for him right there, beyond the wooden chapel. Everything forgotten, Dean ran to him, arms wide, pulling the brave into his tight embrace as he kissed him fiercely. 

Even though the plan was to meet Dean at the water, as he walked with Tayanita, Sam had had second thoughts about leaving Dean to this bitter business of leaving his family alone. He could only imagine the heart ache it must be causing his lover. Samrat knew that if he had to leave his mother and father for good, that his own heart would indeed be heavy. So instead, after a quick explanation to Tayanita, he had turned back, waiting where he felt it was still safe, but close enough to be there for Dean when he would need his support. He had not expected the enthusiastic kiss as Dean hurried to him, not that he minded in the least. Moaning softly deep in his throat as Dean kissed him. 

The plan had been take horses from Sam's father and leave right away. But once their lips met, Dean found himself pushing Samrat up against a tree. "Missed you, missed this," he whispered thickly, his hands groping Sam. "You promised to skin me... so... skin me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting - The story takes place in a fictional English settlement in the American colonies in the mid to late 1600s. A bountiful harvest leads to a Thanksgiving Feast shared by the Colonists and the local Cherokee Indians. Dean Winchester, the son of a preacher, finds himself attracted to an Indian brave, Sam. Coming of age type story. No HEA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Historical note:**
> 
> "In 1621, the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians shared an autumn harvest feast which is acknowledged today as one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations in the colonies. This harvest meal has become a symbol of cooperation and interaction between English colonists and Native Americans. Although this feast is considered by many to be the very first Thanksgiving celebration, it was actually in keeping with a long tradition of celebrating the harvest and giving thanks for a successful bounty of crops. Native American groups throughout the Americas, including the Pueblo, Cherokee, Creek and many others organized harvest festivals, ceremonial dances, and other celebrations of thanks for centuries before the arrival of Europeans in North America. Historians have also recorded other ceremonies of thanks among European settlers in North America..." 
> 
> ** Author's Notes:  **
> 
> (1) In AU fics, we usually try to bring Sam and Dean's strongest character traits with them so that they are recognizable. It is often difficult to write the boys completely in character in other time periods. We note that in this case, not only is the story set in a different time in history, but the characters are also young and inexperienced, and this made it more difficult to pull the show characters' traits (such as confidence, cockiness, etc...)through. Anyway, we gave it our best. 
> 
> (2) We are aware that the Cherokee are not the best match for the time period/setting of the story (there are other tribes which would more likely have been trading with the colonists in this time period etc…), however the authors were more familiar with Cherokee culture and took that route. We have taken artistic license with the story and the art (i.e. the attire used is not Cherokee) so this is not the place to seek a history lesson or absolute cultural truths. Please take this for what it is – fanfication with no toplofty goals of teaching any lessons and which, in case it is not obvious, should not be mistaken as a researched work that anyone will rely on for accuracy.
> 
> (3) For those of you entrenched in the belief that writing about other cultures or including other cultures in fiction is some sort of “cultural appropriation” that should be disallowed, please do not raise your standard/flag here. We respectfully disagree. Art is inspired by many things, including by things (history, language, clothing, experiences) from other cultures and things from beyond the realm of the writer/artist’s own experience. Art can often be traced back to old art, it recombines old art, adds to it and makes new art. We like it that way and reject the stifling counter-view. If this offends you, please click your back button and spare yourself. 
> 
> (A/N & WARNING: There are some insults/slurs in this chapter. While it should be obvious, we nevertheless expressly state that the words that come out of our characters' mouths are not beliefs that are endorsed by the authors. Rather, they are used to paint a realistic picture of the times and the beliefs (including racial prejudice) and speech patterns of some people who lived and acted in a particular way during the period of time our story takes place. Those who cannot handle it, or who hold the belief that a work of fiction should not include this type of language for the stated purpose, please read no further.)

Sam gave a nod, though he couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips at his once so shy __Bhadrak__ 's now very open acts of love. Sam's hands slid over Dean's sides and hips as he held onto him. At Dean's reminder of being 'skinned' Sam smiled. "You are going to wear breechclouts? Loin clothes?" Sam's smiled wider. "We may never come out of our teepee," he chuckled, one hand already going to the blade at his hip.

"You might be right," Dean agreed. He'd worry about how he looked in a loin cloth later. Right now, he just wanted out of his constricting clothes and he wanted Sam's hands on him. His gaze flicked down to the blade, then back up to Sam's eyes.

Reversing their positions, so that Dean was standing against the tree, Sam placed the blade against the fastening at the neck of Dean's shirt. "Don't move," Sam told him softly as he started slicing away the material with a gentle and expert hand, the blade cutting through the fabric, not ever touching Dean's skin. Slowly the material started to fall away from Dean's body, revealing his bare chest. Sam's eyes shone with mischief and his lust for his _Bhadrak_ as he leaned in and ran his tongue around Dean's nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth.

Once, Dean would have thought the rush of excitement was obscene. Now... now he knew better. Sam was right, God... or Father Sky would not have given you the senses to enjoy another person, if he expected there to be no joy in coupling, and he wouldn't have made man love man, if it was so wrong. The moonlight glinted off the knife, and Dean leaned back harder against the tree as Sam cut his shirt off. The sound of tearing material... the hunger in his lover's eyes, sent Dean's need spiraling. The instant Sam's mouth was on him, his head rolled back against the bark, his hands at his sides, biting into the rough wood, as his love brought his body alive.

"Oh God... Sam..." he shuddered, bringing his hands up behind Sam, running them down his long hair, over his back, pulling him slightly closer as the brave moved his mouth and tongue over him in ways that had Dean pressing his lips together to prevent a moan. "So good," he whispered, running his hands under the brave's hair to touch his smooth skin.

Sam smiled against his _Bhadrak_ 's chest, warm breaths fanning his skin as he slid his tongue across his chest to Dean's other nipple, taking it into his mouth, giving it the same attention.

Pulling his mouth away, Sam crouched, gazing up at Dean as his hands rose to the waistband of his breeches, knife sliding in between his stomach and the material. " _U-wo-du-hi_ (beautiful)," he mumbled softly as he slowly pulled the knife downward, cutting the fabric away, then readjusting his hands to peel open the front of Dean's breeches and under clothes, revealing his bare flesh. Slipping one hand into the fabric, Sam wrapped his hand around his lover's cock, pulling him from the bit of material that still constricted him from being freed.

A soft sound slipped from Dean's lips as the knife did it's work, cutting him free from restrictive clothes he would never need again. As Sam reached for him, Dean moved his hands to his lover's shoulders, squeezing in reaction to the ache from one touch of his lover's hand. He bit his lip and tried to stay still, eyes glued to Sam's lips, stomach tight in anticipation.

Leaning in, Sam ran his tongue from the base to the tip of Dean's cock, moaning softly as he pulled his head back just enough to look up at Dean's face as he swallowed, biting his lip. " _O-si-yu_ , good?" Sam asked , voice deep and husky with passion.

Dean leaned down, kissed Sam, tangling his tongue with his, then pulled up, his eyes dark with desire. " _O-si-yu_. Very good," he answered, fingers now running through Sam's long hair, pulling him close. "More. Please." If they'd waited to do this by the stream, he'd have shouted the plea, but he had to keep his voice low here. 

Sam gave a nod, tearing his gaze away from his love's face to look down at his cock, hard and proud, jutting upward toward his stomach. Sam licked his lips and leaned back in, licking him from base to tip, then swirling his tongue around the crown, dipping it into the slit, licking away the precum pearling there. " _U-wo-du-hi_ ," Sam mumbled softly, reaching up, long fingers curling around Dean's length before Sam took his cock into his mouth, sucking him until his cheeks hallowed out, then sliding his mouth along his length.

Very quickly, Dean was chanting, " _O-si-yu, O-si-yu_ , so good... Sam..." and thrusting into his lover's mouth, his hands digging into Sam's shoulders. Wet heat surrounded his cock, Sam's tongue pressed him between sucks, until Dean thought he might go mad with pleasure. Seeing his brave, the love in his eyes, the care he took in bringing him this pleasure every time they came together, took Dean's breath away. "Always thought I was born unlucky," he told Sam. "But I have more luck than any man deserves." He thrust a few more times, then pulled his lover up, whispering in his ear, "Want to be inside you, want you so bad." 

Sam gave a nod, " _Tsa-du'-li-a ni-hi_ (want you)," he answered softly as his hand slid into Dean's pulling him away from the tree, fingers laced together. " _E-he-na_ , come" walking backward, Samrat led them a few steps farther into the woods, glancing behind him every so often until he found a place, a clear spot with a patch of soft grass blanketed in fallen red, orange and golden leaves. "Here," Sam told him with a nod as he slowly got down onto his knees, his gaze searching Dean's face, eyes filled with love and desire for his _Bhadrak_.

Dean kneeled in front of him, slanting his mouth over Sam's as he crushed their mouths together in a long, heated kiss. He'd never get tired of this, it had gotten to where he got edgy when he didn't see Sam for more than two or three days. He hated it when his brave went off to war. Once he was a full member of the tribe, there would be no reason for them to be separate... he'd train as hard as he needed to, become a brave, and stay at his lover's side. Always.

He broke the kiss. "I love you. Tonight we start the rest of our lives, together," Dean said, kissing him again even as he moved behind his brave, and broke the kiss. 

"Love you, my _Bhadrak_ ," Sam answered softly, his head turning as Dean moved behind him, trying to kiss him, see him, as long as he was able.

Dean's hands slipped up and down Sam's powerful thighs, under his longer breechclout, leaning against him, pressing his cock into his lover's lower back as he groped. Sensing Sam's impatience, he found where the buttery soft suede was tucked, pulled on it, and watched the loin cloth drop to the ground. Spitting in his hand, he leaned forward, whispering in Sam's ear as he prepared him, telling him how it would be in their teepee, and how they could sleep under the stars when they wanted, and how they would grow old together without any shame.

Sam moaned, his eyes sliding closed as he tilted his head back, lips parted as he panted out his breaths. Swallowing he slowly lowered his head and licked his lips. "It will be perfect because you, _a-qua-da-nv-do_ (my heart), will be there," Sam answered, reaching back with one hand, to cup Dean's face as he turned his head, kissing him hungrily, messily. Tongues tangling inside and outside of their mouths.

Groaning, Dean kissed him back with all the love in his heart, all the excitement for their future. Moving his hips forward, he positioned the blunt, wet tip of his cock and started to rock forward, slowly, is mouth now skimming over Sam's jaw, neck and shoulder. He pushed in very slowly, working his cock inside, biting his lower lip as the sensations rippling through him made him want to take his brave hard and fast. So tight... so warm and tight around him, his lover was... perfect. 

Sam panted and moaned, groaning as he rocked back against his lover's cock, one hand moving to his own hard length, squeezing and sliding his fist along his length. "Ugh... more... do not stop..." Sam panted, as his face flushed with passion, head bowing and lifting as he tried to push back against Dean. Good, so good. It always felt so good to make love with his _Bhadrak_.

"Not planning on stopping," Dean smiled, but as the next wave of heat swept over him, his smile wavered and he gripped Sam's hip tighter. His free hand moved over Sam's, taking over, stroking his hard cock each time he ground himself against Sam. 

Sam panted, moans and groans tearing from his throat as he rocked himself back on his lover's cock, loving how he felt inside of him, how full, stretched and filled with his love.

They were both leaning forward, more with each hard thrust, sounds breaking form both their lips. "Fuck... Sam... you make me so hard," he whispered, fucking just a little harder, pulling out and slamming inside his lover again. He didn't have to say anything, Sam dropped down onto all fours, and Dean had more leverage. He kissed along Sam's throat as he started to move with wild abandon, pushing both of them to the edge, sounds breaking from him as the ache in his lower belly sharpened. 

" _V-s-ka-ga, v-ska-ga, v-s-ka-ga_ ," Sam groaned, "Yes, yes, yes... My _a-si-u-le e-hu_ , my _a-si-u-le e-hu_...." Sam mumbled breathlessly, always nearly abandoning the White Talk when they made love, his body on fire for his _Bhadrak_. The heat that sang through his veins, pooled low in his belly as Dean continued to fuck hard into him, his hand sliding over his hard cock, pumping him in rhythm with each thrust. Sam grit his teeth as he arched his neck back, eyes squeezing tightly closed. " _Bhadrak_ ," his lover's name a tortured groan torn from his throat.

"Now... Now Sam, with me..." he demanded, fucking hard into his lover and holding for a moment as his entire body went taut... every muscle, his balls pulling up, time stopping.

Sam's balls drew up painfully tight, his entire body ridged, muscles tense. As the first shot of cum left his cock, Sam released his breaths in a rush of air, throwing his head forward as he rocked, hips thrusting into Dean's fisted hand and back against his lover. 

"Angh.. Sammy," he gave the tortured cry as he came hard deep inside his lover, spilling his wet hot seed, filling him, gripping him as another wave of pleasure coursed through him.

" _V-s-ka-ga_... ugh... do not...." Sam panted body writhing under his lover, "stop..." he shook his head, weakly riding out the last of his orgasm.

Dean knew what Sam wanted, needed, and he gave it to him, moving deep inside him, slowing as Sam started to slow. He milked his lover's cock of everything he had, squeezing gently as his hips finally rolled to a stop. Kissing Sam's cheek, he waited for him to turn his face, and kissed his lips once more. Slowly, Dean pulled out. He used his shirt to clean his lover up, then tossed it aside. "Won't be needing that," he whispered, pulling up and giving his hand to Sam. He had to hold onto his breeches with the other hand.

Grabbing up his breechclout, Sam took the offered hand, a smile tugging at his lips as he pulled to his feet. "Won't be needing these either," he told Dean, moving fast to yank at his breeches, laughing and running away from him as his lover's pants were pulled down to his thighs once more.

Turning, Samrat crouched as he would in battle, though he still only held his breechclout in his hand, eyes dancing with mischief as he looked at Dean, waving his free hand for him to come to him. "Let me see _Bhadrak da-nu-wa--a-na-li-hi_." Sam chuckled playfully. 

"I think you saw enough," Dean huffed, pulling his clothes up and trying to knot the material as he followed, glowering at the playful brave. "You're lucky I'm slow because I ate too much," he made excuses for not having seen this coming. "Your name should be emperor fox, not wolf... you're much sneakier..." Dean saw Sam's gaze shift suddenly to a spot behind him. Half thinking he was joking again, but turning anyway, his heart almost stopped when he saw a group of men approaching. Securing his pants, he started stumbling backwards as the men started hurling insults at both of them. Dean turned his head and saw Samrat pulling his breechclout on.

Sam didn't speak a word to the white men who had approached them, questioning what they were doing, making crude suggestions and tossing out hateful slurs. Men who spoke with, _di-gv-tsu-gi_ , forked tongues. Pretending to have befriended the Cherokee, only to secretly hate.

Some of the words they spoke, Samrat Waya did not even understand, but he knew enough to know they were bad. The way they were spoken, his _Bhadrak_ 's reaction to them. He knew, they were very bad things. Samrat did the only thing that he, a warrior knew to do, placing himself between the bad men and his love.

If Dean hadn't seen the rage in their eyes, especially in the eyes of the brother of the girl that he'd been approached about marrying, he'd have tried to talk them down. He started to reach for Sam to pull him back, to shout "run!"

It happened in a blur of movement, one minute he and Dean were backing away from the five men and the next there was shouting and pain. Samrat's hand went to the blade at his belt as the men moved in on them, kicking and slicing, stabbing at them, fighting as a warrior fights. Samrat's blade found home in one of the men's shoulder's as he fought to fend them off.

Dean pushed away one of the men but saw that the others were zeroing in on the brave. "Samrat--" His warning was cut short by the meaty fist that slammed into his face. He pulled away, tried to get free, this time shouting his lover's name out as the brave was outnumbered by his attackers.

Sam's weakness was hearing Dean's voice. Turing his head to look, to seek out his love, was Samrat's undoing. The three whites fighting him used that moment of diversion to attack, tackling him to the ground, even as Samrat continued to kick and slice his blade in the air at them.

His self defense earned him hard blow after blow with the butt of a rifle across his face. The brave's blood splattered and sprayed as his head snapped to the side, the rifle making contact with a loud whack as it hit and broke bones. Samrat's blade fell from his hand. As he slowly rolled over, another white man had taken out his own knife and kneeling at Samrat's feet, he sliced the blade across the back of Sam's ankles, first one then the other, cutting, splitting tendons.

"No. Noooo, wait... fuck ... Samrat," Dean shouted hoarsely, held back by two men. A kick to his kidneys had him falling on his knees, tasting blood... eyes glued to his brave... his brave, now bloody and broken. "Stop. You know who he is... he didn't do anything... Help, HELP," Dean started to call out when he was punched again. His head was jerked back, and a kerchief was stretched across his mouth, his shouts now muffled by the cloth. 

Sam clenched his teeth, pain-filled grunts leaving him as he tried to turn over, raise up on his hands and knees, only to fall as pain wracked his form. Trying again, his arms shook. The sound of the white man's laughter muffled as if from far away, ringing in is ears. More pain than he had ever known wracked his body, made him want to cry out, to scream, but Samrat did not. He held it in, held it at bay, unwilling to allow these men to have the satisfaction of his pain. He was a warrior, proud. Unwilling to allow his _Bhadrak_ hear his shouts, not wanting to scare him.

How could this be happening? He was Samrat Waya, son of Chief Wohali Ahuli, these white men were suppose to be their friends, their new brothers. He had spoken to his father on their behalf, his people had taught theirs to plant and to hunt, to survive in this land. Samrat did not understand men who could lie like this. Was their word not good, had they no honor?

Pushing himself up once more on weak shaking arms, Samrat tried to crawl, only to throw his head back, biting his lip as excruciating pain shot up his legs from his ankles. His breaths panting out, Samrat turned his head, looking back at his own mangled feet, his pain glazed eyes passed over his love as he turned his head.

What were they doing to him? Wasn't it enough they'd crippled him? Dean tried to get to Sam, tried to fight to reach him. To touch him, help him off the ground. Their eyes met, and his filled with tears for the pain his brave was suffering. Stop... please stop... they could barely hear him, and weren't listening. When he was too much trouble, he was tied to a tree, so the men were free to go after Sam. Noooooo. His eyes once again met his lover's. Fear... fear for his lover... shame, at what his people were doing to him... all of it tore Dean apart. They'd stop now... they'd had their fun... they had to stop now... The rope burned his wrists, the bark of the tree scraped his bare back as he struggled to free himself.

"Listen to that, the Injun doesn't even feel anything! He isn't even making any noise." The man turned his attention to Dean, leering, "cept ones I'm sure the likes of you are enjoying. Abomination! Isn't that what your father preaches from the pulpit about the stuff you were doin' with a savage!? A heathen!?" the man chuckled and shook his head, watching as Samrat tried to move, to drag himself away.

"Stupid fuckin' Injun!" he yelled as he quickly pulled out his hunting knife and raised it high, plunging it deep into Samrat's back.

Dean's eyes widened in horror. No... he knew that man, Mr. Smith... he couldn't... wouldn't... But when the blade sank into Sam, Dean went wild trying to pull away. No... no... not his beautiful brave. Kind, always generous, Sam... he didn't deserve this, he didn't... God.... they were the animals, not the Indians... they ... his own people were the animals. Sam!!!!!

Dean's stomach twisted, he wanted to throw up his guts as he watched his lover's eyes widen, watching his hand automatically reach back toward the blade buried in his back. His brave rolled to his side, his face toward Dean, giving Dean a clear view of the damage to his lover's face, the blood running down from his nose and mouth, the glazed pain-filled look in his dark hazel eyes. Oh my God... no... no.

As the knife was savagely torn from his back, Sam only gazed into Dean's face, jaw clenched and still held at a proud stubborn angle. " _I-li-s-go---lv-ta-nv_ Dean _ha-ni-gi_ (let Dean go), _i-li-s-go---lv-ta-nv_ Dean _ha-ni-gi_ ," Sam said weakly, breathless. Swallowing, Sam coughed, panting pained breaths, " _U-do-hi-yu-I_ (please)"

It was the first thing Samrat Waya had said since it all began.

Dean shook his head from side to side. No, he was the one who should be beaten, cut... not his brave. Why... why were they doing this? He couldn't, didn't look away from Sam, though he tried in vain to tear himself away from the rope cutting into his skin.

"What the hell is he saying?" one of the men asked.

"I don't know. That damn heathen savage double talk," another of the men spat, kicking Samrat in the ribs, though Sam kept his gaze locked with Dean's, a small pained grunt leaving him.

Dean wanted to shut his eyes, wanted to make all this go away. He shouted against the cloth, he pleaded for Sam's life, he cursed the men to hell, he begged that they take him... leave Sam, they'd done enough. Oh God... hadn't they done enough?

"Get the Injun on his feet. We're going to teach him to talk the way God intended. Not that damn heathen shit," a man said, the one leading the others.

Dean's head moved side to side again, eyes pleading with the men who only showed him their backs. Dean started to pray. In his heart, in his gut, in his soul, he knew it was too late... but he prayed, he did what his father taught him and he prayed. He made an oath... his life... let him live, let them go, and I will never touch a man again, I will give him up, I will give myself up... let him live, God ... let him live...

Three of the men went over to Sam, wrestling with him as he continued to fight, to struggle against them as best as he could while they bound his wrists behind his back before lifting Sam up on legs that would no longer hold him on damaged tendons. Looks of pain crossed the brave's face, though he still made no sound as he grit his teeth, stared challengingly at those who had betrayed him as they held him against a tree.

One of the men wrapped a rope around Samrat and the tree to hold him up, binding him to it as another brought over lye soap while the others pried Samrat's mouth open, rough hands squeezing at the hallows of his cheeks, at his jaw joints, plugging his nose so he had to open his mouth to breath.

Sam tried to turn his head, to fight back as best as he could, teeth clenched, eyes wide with a fear he would not, could not allow them to see, until he couldn't fight them any longer and his mouth was pried open.

They force fed him the lye soap. It burned his throat and nose, stung his eyes and made them water, it made his nose to run, his mouth foam. Blood ran from his nose into the soapy foam that bubbled from his mouth turning it pink.

Laughing, they stepped away from the Indian. Maybe to give Dean a better look, maybe just to view their own handy work. 

Head hanging, Sam panted fearful breaths through foaming parted lips, gaze locking with Dean's, eyelids half closed. Blood loss and pain taking their toll, making him want to give in to the darkness that hovered at the edges of his vision. Made him want to let go, to fight no more forever. But, he refused, seeing Dean, his _Bhadrak_ looking at him, watching him. He could not just let go.

Tears flowed down Dean's face... while his lover bled. He struggled and fought, while his lover held still. He screamed and shouted through the gag, while his lover gave them only his proud silence, and told them to fuck off in his own way. 

"String him up." One of the men called out.

A noose was tossed over the tree branch next to Sam, four men on the other end of the rope waited for the other to wrap the nose around Sam's head, cutting free the one length of rope holding the Indian upright, his legs having long ago buckled limply. 

Gaze still locked with Dean's, Samrat did not fight the noose, only kept his gaze fixed on his love. As the other men pulled and heaved on the opposite end, Sam's body slowly rose, feet dangling off the ground. They tied the rope with Sam only about the foot off the ground, watching as he slowly choked, his body twisting and turning on the rope, jerking as he kicked, tried to find purchase with damaged feet. 

Laughter, cruel laughter echoed around Samrat Waya as blood vessels slowly broke in his eyes, face turning a deep purple color, eyelids slowly drooping and closing.

No. God. No. Dean's prayers changed all of a sudden. He prayed for Samrat Waya's death. Take him... take him God... please take him now... take him.... take him...

"Oh God, die already will ya, ya damn heathen!" one of the men spat, pulling out his knife, stabbing Sam in the lower chest with it. 

Sam's head jerked back, eyes still closed, body twitching and convulsing as blood ran in deep scarlet rivers down his abs, dripping onto the ground at his feet. Sam's body slumped in the noose, head hanging, head tilted to the side, eyes closed.

"About damn time. Now go cut the preacher's kid free. I think he's learned his lesson." 

As one of the men walked over to Dean, another climbed up, cutting the rope leading to the noose around Sam's neck. Sam fell to the ground in a heap, body limp and unmoving.

The ropes were cut away from Dean's wrists and body, and Dean was kicked in the back. As he stumbled toward Sam, he pulled the gag off, and the men melted away into the night. He dropped to his knees, pulling Sam into his arms, crying hoarsely. "Samrat... Sammy... oh fuck... Oh God..." he buried his face in Sam's neck, his face instantly wet with his lover's blood. "We were supposed to be free tonight... free..." His shoulders shook as he held Sam tighter, "free..."

Samrat's eyes slowly opened to mere slits, looking up at his _Bhadrak_ , lips moved, but no sound came out as he tried to tell Dean one last time that he loved him. Not to weep for him. But the lye soap had damaged his throat, his weakened body had no strength left to push the words out. Instead only a small breath of air pushed out between parted blood stained lips.

Feeling Sam move, Dean lifted his head. He was alive... Dean tore off the ropes around Sam's wrists, throwing them as far from them as he could, and looking down at his lover. "Samrat..." he choked and whispered in Cherokee, "I love you. Love you... my beautiful brave."

Sam gazed up into his _Bhadrak_ 's beautiful green eyes, eyes like the grasses of Mother Earth, they had made love on. Slowly one of Sam's hands moved, sliding across the dead grass and fallen leaves up onto his chest where Dean's hand lay. He looked down at his hand, watching as he struggled to make it do as he wanted, slowly sliding their fingers together, lacing them. His gaze darted back up to Dean's face, before his eyelids slowly began to close, blackness engulfing him in it's warm, pain free, embrace and, this time, because his _Bhadrak_ was safe, Samrat Waya welcomed the darkness with open arms.

Dean's fingers threaded with Sam's, were wet and sticky with his blood. "I was dead before you, Sam. You brought me to life. You are my life, my breath... and I... I am still no poet," he said, his voice cracking with the knowledge there would be no more jokes, no more pretty words like only his lover could weave, no more lazy nights by the stream. Lowering his head, he kissed Sam lightly. "I will... " He started to cry, couldn't speak... his brave had hardly made a sound, and he was crying, damn it. Forcing himself to stop, he spoke again. "I will see you in the Hunting Grounds... go... Godspeed," he kissed him again, feeling his lover's life slipping away.

They would have no teepee of their own, there would be no fighting side by side as braves, there would be no growing old together, no loving one another free and wild among Sam's people, for Samrat Waya died that Thanksgiving day in the arms of his love. Because Dean's people did not understand the love that could exist between two men and because of their callous disregard of the people of what they called the 'new world', Samrat and Dean's dreams disintegrated to ash.

* * *

He could have stolen a horse or taken a pull wagon from the fields. Dean did neither of those things. Unable or unwilling to be parted from Sam for even a moment, and too numb to think straight or even to feel his lover's weight, Dean carried his lover's body. One step at a time, wetness spreading over him with each passing moment, stumbling, in turn angry and sad, his hopes and dreams... his future crushed with his lover's death, Dean approached the Indian camp.

It was early, the sun was only now rising. It had taken him long to get here. He fully expected to bear the chief's anger... it was fine by him. He wanted nothing more than to join Samrat Waya... to hunt with him in the Hunting Grounds beyond life.

Dogs started to bark. He saw a few silhouette's, braves standing watch. He tried calling to them, but his voice was low and raspy... he just trudged on, looked forward to his reconciliation with the one who meant everything to him.

Activity was only just beginning in the village, fires burned low as squaws started breakfast, dogs ran between the teepees, their attention on the one walking toward their home as they barked and carried on fiercely. Slowly everyone's attention was drawn to the white man who walked, stumbled slowly toward them, a brave in his arms. 

A loud shrieking cry went up from some where in the village and more figures emerged from their teepees, Samrat's father Chief Wohali Ahuli among them, his attention also on the one who approached. 

One minute it had been dead silent in the village save for the small sounds of a day beginning, the next there were murmurs, worried voices, shrill cries and tears. 

Tayanita stepped out of seemingly nowhere, blocking Dean's path, his face set in angry lines as he looked from Dean down to Samrat, then back up into the white man's face. "What are you doing with him!? What have you done!? You killed him!? He loved you and this is how you repay..." Tayanita yelled in Cherokee at Dean as he reached out, grabbing Samrat's wrist in his hand, tugging his friends body out of the white man's arms. 

Sam fell to the ground in a thud, but Tayanita did not flinch at that fact. Walking backward he continued to drag Sam's body away from Dean, pulling him into the center of the village. 

Maidens ran to Samrat's form, falling on their knees around him weeping as they held onto their great chief's dead son. 

Samrat Waya's mother, Onacona, stepped proudly from their teepee, walking slowly over to her son, her silent tears slowly falling down her pretty face as she knelt on the ground beside Samrat. Pulling her son's head and shoulders up into her lap, she rocked back and forth as she sang a mourning song, her cheek laying against the crown of Samrat's head. 

Tayanita's face twisted in rage at the sight, in the blink of an eye he had his tomahawk in hand, running toward Dean, slamming him against a tree, holding him there by a handful of his short dark blond hair, ready to scalp him.

Even as he was roughly pushed against the tree, Dean's gaze was on Sam's body, until it was surrounded and he could barely see his brave. His face was wrenched up by the tugging on his hair. His gaze now met Tayanita's. He recognized the rage, the lack of empathy or reason... he'd seen the same look only a short time ago, in the faces of the men who'd brutalized and killed his lover. Taking a breath, he clamped his teeth together, praying for Sam's courage... praying he would die like a brave, his brave, without a single plea passing through his lips.

Tayanita's eyes narrowed as he looked at Dean, his arm holding the tomahawk swung back as dark brown orbs locked with green. "He was my best friend," Tayanita growled in Cherokee just before he gave a loud war cry, swinging his arm, the blade of the tomahawk, toward Dean's head, his scalp. 

Just before the tomahawk reached Dean's head, a hand caught Tayanita's arm. " _Tla_ no, Tayanita," came Wohali Ahuli's voice beside them, his grip tightening around the brave's arm as he shook his head. " _A-tsu-tsa u-yo-hu-sv, I-li-s-go---lv-ta-nv, tla no gi-ga-ha-I_ (my son is dead, let no more blood be spilled today)." 

Wohali Ahuli turned his head, tearing his gaze away from Tayanita, slowly releasing the brave's arm as he looked at his people. "We will bury my son," he looked back at Dean as Tayanita slowly released him, "then we burn the white man's crops, take their horses, leave them with nothing before we go to make winter camp," he told them all, his voice flat.

Standing Deer, the medicine man, walked over to Samrat's body, nodding to another brave before bending to lift Samrat's upper body into his arms, the brave grabbing Sam's feet, helping to carry his body away into the holy man's teepee. 

"How -" Wohali Ahuli's gaze searched Dean's face, "How did _a-tsu-tsa_ (my son) die?" he asked softly.

Speaking haltingly... almost entirely in Cherokee, giving up his own people and tongue in the process... Dean rasped as loudly as he could for everyone to hear, telling the shameful tale, leaving no detail of both the brutality of the men attacking an almost unarmed young man, and Samrat Waya's bravery, his courage and honor until the moment his eyes closed forever. Dean's face was now dry of tears. 

Wohali Ahuli gave a small nod of his head at the end of Dean's tale, reaching out to grasp Dean's shoulder, squeezing it for a moment before his hand fell away and he turned, walking back toward his wife, who stood silently weeping for her dead son. 

Tayanita continued to glare at Dean, hatred clear on his handsome face. His angry gaze running over Dean before he turned on a heel, walking back toward the holy man's teepee and disappearing inside.

Hanging his head, Dean sank down to the ground, back against the tree. Yesterday at this time, he'd had a future... a bright one. Now, he only looked forward to his own death.

* * *

He was surprised that no one approached him, no one bothered or harassed him, not since Tayanita had made his feelings known. Dean had kept to the edges of the Indian camp, trying not to interfere, but unable to tear himself away from standing watch over the tepee Sam had been taken into. When mourners stopped entering it, and he was sure only the medicine man was there, Dean walked to the tent, opened the flap and walked inside.

The medicine man was impassive. He listened quietly when Dean asked if he could have something of Samrat Waya's. After speaking a few moments, the man cut a thick strand of hair from Sam's head and called someone, a woman, in. While Dean held still, keeping his emotions in check, she wove Sam's hair into his own. 

Quietly thanking both of them, Dean accepted Sam's knife, and took his bloodied breech clout. Sam had been changed into new fineries. They left him alone with the body, although he had nothing left to say, no more tears to cry. All he could do was recite the dreams they'd never live, and then he left the tent.

People were breaking up the other tents, pulling things down, preparing to leave this place. 

"It is time," the woman who had tattooed Sam told him, as she rubbed the ashes from Samrat's now charred and burned breechclout into Dean's skin, low on his belly, near his hip. The picture of a lone wolf howling emerged... his emperor wolf, his brave. He'd been given suede pants to change into, he pulled them low in order not to irritate his skin. Wearing Sam's knife at his waist, he went to the place near the river, where people had gathered for the burial ceremony. 

Once again, he kept himself apart, not wanting to intrude. But he stood at the very spot near the water, where they had kissed and played often. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear his lover's teasing voice.

Sam's body was buried with his bow and arrow, a knife he owned and had used, along with his own pipe and some tobacco. New feathers had been tied in Sam's hair, to go along with his now clean body, dressed for the journey into the Happy Hunting Grounds. After the Medicine Man said prayers over Samrat Waya's body, he was lowered into the small grave that had been dug for him, then covered with dirt and large rocks. Once he was buried voices raised in loud calls of mourning, their voices lifted to the Great Spirit. 

With everything packed and ready, Samrat's body laid to rest, it was time for the Cherokee to take from the white man as they had taken from the Cherokee. Samrat had spoken on their behalf, with him gone, there was no reason to believe in the things these people said, no reason to try to keep any form of relationship with them.

Warriors prepared to ride out into the nearby white village, though Tayanita was not among them. His face painted for war, the lone brave set out for revenge against those who had killed his best friend, his brother, Samrat Waya.

* * *

Dean entered the settlement, clinging to the shadows of the buildings. Dressed as he was, if anyone saw him, it might draw too much attention before he finished this. It was strange how quiet the town was, as if there hadn't been a brutal murder less than twelve hours ago. He wondered how many knew... whether his father knew. 

It didn't matter, he was done with that life. He'd seen his own people's forked tongues, and he had tried not to believe that in the end, more of them would come, prepared to believe they were the higher of the two peoples, that they were favored by God to rule these lands. Thanksgiving feasts were... they were a dream, an ideal. The truth was that hate, prejudice and greed lurked in the hearts of many... and they were not afraid to act upon it. Dean would have nothing to do with that, not anymore. The one dream he had left... a new one, was to send five men to their graves before he died.

He was in and out of his house without anyone hearing him, his shotgun in his hand as he climbed out of the window and dropped down onto the ground. He headed for the house at the far end of the settlement, the Roberts' residence. He glanced through the small window, quickly passing it and pressing his back into the wall. The table was being set for dinner, but he didn't see either the elder or younger Roberts. His gaze slipped to their stable. Quietly, he crossed to it and pushed the door open quietly. Eyes burning with anger, he aimed for the son first, images of how the bastard had poured the lye down his lover's throat twisting him up on the inside. He would show these people the same mercy they'd shown Samrat Waya. None.

Tayanita did not know the names of those who had killed Samrat Waya, nor would he likely be able to put them with a face if he did. It did not matter to the brave who snuck, quiet as the wind, through the white man's village. He did not care if he killed an innocent. Samrat Waya had been innocent, he had done nothing wrong and yet they had slaughtered him. He would show the same mercy to these people. 

Catching sight of Samrat's white man, Dean, as he snuck through the village, Tayanita's eyes narrowed as he watched him, crept along behind him. If he were here to warn his people of their coming attack, Tayanita would have no qualms of slitting his throat. Samrat may have loved him, but look where such love had gotten his friend. Samrat was gone and Tayanita would no longer hear his friends laughter nor see the mischief dance in his eyes. 

Following Dean out to a small stable, Tayanita climbed a nearby tree, dropping down on the roof, moccasin clad feet making no sound as he moved. Crawling across the roof to an open window, Tayanita waited for the moment to strike, his gaze laser focused on the three white men beneath him.

Dean's finger started to squeeze the trigger, but he stopped. If he made sound now, it would be over. He'd kill one, or both of them, maybe. But the others would be free. It wasn't acceptable. Quietly, he set the shotgun down and picked up the pitchfork leaning against the wall. In two steps, he reached the men.

"Father!"

The elder Roberts just escaped the sharp pitchfork. "They've turned you into a heathen," he shouted, taking in Dean's clothing... and war paint.

Face grim, Dean didn't answer. The time for conversation was long over. Whipping the pitchfork around suddenly, he stalked the younger Roberts and pushed him into the wall with it. He was trying to pull the pitchfork free, when a heavy bucket struck him from behind. Pain meant nothing.

Samrat's white boy was crazy. That was the first thought that Tayanita had as he watched Dean attack these men with a pitchfork. A pitchfork was too large and clumsy to fight with, especially in a small area against two men. Knife or tomahawk would be better. 

Tayanita pulled his own knife from his belt, taking it between his teeth as his grip tightened around the tomahawk in his hand. His bow and arrows were strapped to his back, though the brave hoped to do this hand to hand, to be there to make sure these people suffered as they died, the same way that Samrat had. 

The elder Roberts hurried over to a wall, grabbing up the rifle leaning against it. Tayanita watched as the man aimed the rifle at Dean, eyes narrowing before he swung down, dropping into the stables behind the elder Roberts. With a loud war cry, Tayanita rushed forward, to the man, wrapping an arm around him, hand at the man's forehead, tilting his head back. 

A rifle shot rang out as Tayanita's blade sliced the man's throat open, the gun slowly slipping from dead fingers. Looking up as he shoved the body away from himself, Tayanita's gaze fell on Dean. "Do it, then we go for others," he told him in Cherokee, jutting his chin at the younger Roberts.

Dean's gaze met the warrior's. He gave a nod, and completely ignoring the pleas from the younger Roberts, put his foot on the boy's chest, pushing him off the pitchfork, before stabbing him all the way though with it one more time. He ran to the door, "this way."

There were shouts ringing out, not in response to the gun shot, but because the Cherokee were burning down the fields. Grinning, but his eyes mirthless, Dean pointed at a house. "Red hair. Also named Sam... Samuel. Meet you back here." He'd seen Mr. Smith run out and he knew the man was headed over to get his brother. He ran from Tayanita, ran like a man possessed.

Later, when Dean returned to the meeting spot, there was blood all over Dean's chest and on Samrat Waya's knife. Other settlers thought he'd been injured by the Indians who were still attacking. He shouted at them to help his father, and when they ran to help the preacher, he was alone. 

Tayanita ran toward where he saw Dean standing, his bare chest was dotted with sprays of blood, his hands red with it, his dark eyes intent. He gave a nod as he neared Dean, stopping beside him.

"One more," Dean said gruffly, sure that the brave had accomplished his task. 

"You... see him?" Tayanita asked, looking toward the scurrying people, running from the 'savage crazy Indians' who were burning their fields and stealing their horses. Tayanita's eyes narrowed as he watched them scatter like mice.

They pulled back, against the building as Dean searched. He shook his head, "No. I don't see him." Anger built in his stomach. One left... he couldn't allow it. Looking up, he started to climb the side of the house. He moved fast, like he didn't care whether he slipped and fell or not. From the higher vantage point, he scanned the town and the part of the fields that he could see. Suddenly a smile split his face.

Dropping down, he looked at Tayanita. "He's by the well. They won't let you get close... you go..." he shoved the brave, and headed back into the stable where they'd killed the Roberts. Moments later, he emerged with a rope, tying a noose as he headed toward the well near the edge of the field, where people were taking water by the buckets, trying to put out flames.

Tayanita's eyes narrowed on Dean at the shove. Earlier that day, had he done that he would have found himself scalped with his throat slit, or Tayanita's arrow in his back. Now... now Tayanita was beginning to see how Dean had no part in his friends death. He had only been a witness to the horrible act upon someone who deserved none of it, and Tayanita had seen how much Dean was hurting, just like he was over the loss.

The brave did not go far, only slipping into areas where he would not be seen as he followed behind Dean at a distance, watching.

He saw Dean walk up to a man, there was yelling, though Tayanita was too far away, the noise around him too loud for him to hear the exchange, but punches were thrown afterward. As the fight broke out, Tayanita snuck back toward one of the stables still containing horses. Opening the stalls, he smacked all but one hard on the rump, watched as they took off out of the stable as if bad spirits were after them.

Grabbing the mane of the remaining horse, Tayanita jumped up on the animals back, slowly riding it out of the stable. It was then that he saw Dean once more, his nose bloody, a dark smudge along his jaw. He was in the process of sliding the noose around the other man's neck. The man who looked a lot worse than Dean did. His face bloody and bruised, the goose egg on the man's head could nearly be seen from the distance that Tayanita was away from them. _Bhadrak_ had done well.

As the noose slid around the man's neck, Tayanita gave a loud war cry, digging his heels into the horse, the animal took off at a full out run.

"Jump, _Bhadrak_! Jump!" Tayanita shouted as he rode past, snatching the end of the rope, the noose, from Dean's hand. Just as the horse passed by, Tayanita felt Dean jump onto the animal's back behind him. Coiling the rope and tying it to the animals neck, they continued to ride, running the horse at a full gallop, dragging the last of Samrat's murders behind them. 

It was the last thing Dean expected, but he moved at Tayanita's command and it probably saved his life because he would have been outnumbered if left behind. As they rode hard, Dean gripped the brave around the waist but turned to watch the body dragging behind them get battered and broken. Just as it should be. Smoke rose into the clouds, and yeah... it didn't bring Sam back, but it filled a part of the gaping hole he had there. Once he turned his back to it, it was for always. There was nothing there for him now, nothing.

* * *

It was late at night. They'd make camp and the fires were roaring. From what Dean understood, there was still a long way to travel. Really, the farther the better, from his perceptive. 

He hadn't had much dinner. It hurt to look at Samrat's mother and father, even though both looked stoic. When people started to tell stories of his childhood and his bravery as a warrior, Dean moved away from the crowd to sit under a tree. Closing his eyes, he listened and imagined the events they told, trying hard not to allow his emotions to show. 

Seeing Dean sitting alone under a tree off to the side of the others, Tayanita walked over and crouched beside him. "You... not want to hear of Samrat's youth?" he asked as he looked intently at Dean. 

Opening his eyes with a start, Dean was reminded of all the times his own quiet brave snuck up on him. "I'm listening." He let out a breath. "I can... see it... in my mind," he touched his forehead, not knowing if he'd used the correct word. "Imagine it." He took another breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't... I couldn't do anything to help him. Nothing," he bit his cheek hard, punishing himself.

Tayanita nodded as he looked down at the ground, muscle in his jaw twitching. Slowly he looked back up at Dean, "I - I am glad he.... found you," he nodded, "You make him smile." He gave a small smile of his own. "He used to tell me, you were like the," he frowned, brows furrowing, before lifting his gaze to the sky, though it was dark, "Sun that shines down on all things and gives them life. You were that for him and it was good to see."

The brave hung his head, "I was.... angry that he died." He looked up at Dean, "And you were here, with pale skin, different, like them. I should not have done that." He shook his head, "I know that now." Slowly he moved to sit on the ground beside Dean, "Besides, Samrat always told me that Coyote needed looking after. You scare like brother buck and sister fawn," he nodded, smiling.

The truth was that Dean wasn't at all like the sun that gave life. He'd been Samrat's death... he'd been the one caught with Sam, it had been his people that had killed him. No, Sam would have been safe if ... The lump in his throat grew more painful. He licked his lips. "Not scared anymore, of anything." He lifted his head, saw the smile, and despite himself, couldn't help giving a soft laugh. Sam would have had them both laughing hard. "Except moccasin clad feet that make no sound."

Scrubbing his face, he looked over at the others breaking up to sleep. They would have an early morning. "We're both going to miss him. You think... maybe I should take the name Coyote?" He knew it wasn't very flattering, it was a joke... but it had been Samrat's joke.

Tayanita slowly looked over at Dean and gave an thoughtful frown, " _Bhadrak_ Wa-ya," gave a nod, "It's a good name." A slow smile spread across his face as he snickered. "I believe you are stuck with _Bhadrak_ , you can blame Samrat for that," he chuckled nodding.

" _Bhadrak_ Wa-ya," Dean gave a pained chuckle. "He said it wouldn't be good if I went around and said I am _Bhadrak_. Somewhere, he is having a good laugh over this."

Tayanita pulled to his feet looking down at Dean. "Here," he said, reaching into the pouch on his belt. He handed Dean a pinch of herbs with a nod. "Standing Deer's woman gave me some. It will help you sleep. Dream good dreams," he told Dean with a nod. He started to turn and walk away only to stop and look back at Dean. "If you ever see Samrat walking around near the river when we go back in the spring," he gave a nod, "you tell him he still has my favorite arrow head." With that Tayanita turned and walked away, disappearing into his family's teepee.

Watching as the flap closed, Dean settled back against the tree, sure he wouldn't find sleep. He might not have taken the sleeping draught he'd been given, if not for the fact that they'd have a hard long day tomorrow, and he did not want to hold anyone back.

* * *

Dean woke with a start. Memories of what that day had brought returned, making him wish for the oblivion of sleep again, when a movement caught his eye. In a distance, a lone warrior, standing tall and proud at the edge of a forest, as if about to enter it.

"Wait!" Dean shouted and started running toward him. "Wait for me." He ran as fast as the wind now, unfettered by pants or by a tight doublet, leaping over fallen trees, intent only on one then.

Samrat Waya paused in his steps, hearing the voice that cried out to him, knowing it as well as he knew his own. Head held high, jaw clenched, he slowly turned his head to look back over his shoulder, eyes squinting in the bright day sun.

It was him. His _Bhadrak_. Turning around fully, a smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he watched Dean race toward him. Sam's gaze moved over his lovers form, taking in the breechclout and moccasins.

Dean staggered to a stop, eyes feasting on Samrat Waya, skimming over his face, and body, finding only unblemished skin. His chest rose and fell, fear and excitement making his heart pump faster, making him shake. "It is you." He took another step, reaching for his lover, his eyes misting the instant he drew the brave's scent in and knew this was no dream, it was real.

Samrat gave a small nod in answer as he looked at Dean and then he was being pulled into Dean's arms, his own slowly lifting to wrap around his love as he closed his eyes with a sigh. It was so good to see, feel him again. Opening is eyes, Sam slowly drew back, a small smirk pulling at his lips, that same mischievous light in his eyes. "See? With less clothes, you run fast like deer, not waddle like duck," he told Dean as he smiled wide, showing rows of straight white teeth and dimples.

We'll never leave our teepee. The words reverberated in Dean's mind even as he smiled at Sam's joke. He couldn't release him, wouldn't. "Let me run with you," Dean nodded toward the forest that would lead Samrat to his new life. 

Samrat glanced back over his shoulder at the tree line, before turning his attention back to Dean, his smile now gone as he shook his head. "I can not, _Bhadrak_ , I am sorry. You must stay here. I have to make the journey alone." He sighed softly, eyes sad as hazel eyes met greens. One hand moved to cup Dean's face, "I love you, my _Bhadrak_ , I will always love you." His gaze searched Dean's face, "I will be with you, always." Sam gave a small smile before tearing his gaze away from Dean to look upward at the sky. "I am the sun that warms you when it is cold," he looked back at Dean, his gaze intent on his love's, "I am the wind that sweeps through your hair, the rain that licks at your skin. I am always with you, _Bhadrak_ , you just have to look for me."

"I will always look for you," Dean agreed, pressing his cheek into Sam's palm, turning slightly to kiss it. A tide of emotion surge through him. "I love you. With my heart, my body, my soul... I love you, Samrat Waya," he vowed. "I keep a part of you with me, always." Desperately, he sought his lover's lips, his fingers sliding through long silky strands of hair as he cupped the back of Sam's head and slanted his mouth over the warrior's. Tangling his tongue with Sam's, he kissed him hard, tasting him, committing this moment... the way their tongues danced, the way their bodies pressed and swayed together, the feeling of their hearts pounding in their chests... all of it and more, he committed to memory. It would have to last him his lifetime.

Sam slowly pulled back, his gaze roaming over his love. "I have missed you," he told him with a smile. "I saw you," he nodded, "when you wept for me. Never again, _Bhadrak_. Only smiles when you think of me." He gave a nod as he took a step back, his hand sliding down Dean's face, his neck, his chest to his hip. One finger tracing over the lone wolf tattoo there. Samrat smiled as he looked back up at Dean and shook his head. "It is not right. He needs his Coyote with him." He gave a nod and licked his lips, "And maybe a large spear." He chuckled, reaching up to flick the end of Dean's nose playfully.

On the verge of tears, a short laugh worked its way out of Dean. "Anything you want." The familiar gesture had him swallowing over the painful lump. His heart ached for all that would not be. "I'll do it, Sammy." Sensing their time was coming to an end, he held tighter, eyes pleading for the impossible.

Slowly Samrat's smile fell away replaced by a look of regret as he sighed, "I have to go, _Bhadrak_. I have a long journey ahead of me. I will think of you, love you, always." Samrat Waya told him. The corners of his lips quirked upward slightly as he looked at Dean and gave a nod, "I like the name. It... suits you." He leaned in once more, his lips brushing over Dean's jaw, nose against his neck as he took in a deep breath, arms wrapped tightly around him. "Goodbye _a-qua-da-nv-do_ (my heart)," he whispered softly before pulling back. Arms sliding from around Dean, Sam laced their fingers together, his gaze dropping to their hands. "When you cannot sleep," he looked back up at Dean, "just think of me there, holding your hand," he gave a nod, "I am." Slowly he slid his hand away from Dean's, taking a step back, then another and another.

As Samrat slipped away from him, Dean couldn't help calling to him. "Samrat..."

Samrat turned, forcing himself to head away from his love as he knew he needed to, he felt the pull from the _u-ne-qua_ (Great Spirit). Taking a few steps away, he paused, turning to look back at Dean, "Oh, tell Tayanita something for me?" he said. "Tell him, by the river, under the rock, near the oak tree," he nodded. "Now maybe he will stop whining like a mule about his arrowhead." Sam grinned, winking at Dean, before he turned again, adjusting the strap to his bow and arrows as he walked, back straight, head held high. Samrat Waya stepped into the woods, continuing on his journey.

The urge to follow him, to chase Samrat, to insist on going with him was so powerful, Dean had to grab hold of an overhead branch to stop himself. He couldn't disappoint Samrat... he'd walk in his footsteps, like he'd said. Grinning back, heart lurching as his lover winked at him one last time, Dean stood there, watching long past the time his beautiful brave disappeared between the trees. 

Dean would welcome the sun, the rain, and the breeze... he would be with his brave in spirit, until he joined him in the Happy Hunting Grounds.

* * *

I give you this one thought to keep,  
I'm with you still. I do no sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow.  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning hush,  
I am the swift uplifting rush,  
Of quiet birds in circled flight  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not think of me as gone  
I am with you still, in each new dawn.  
Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there, I do not sleep.  
Do not stand there at my grave an cry  
I am not there, I did not die. 

 

(Most attribute this poem to Mary Frye, some sources say it a Cherokee prayer and that the author is unknown.)


End file.
